Never Neverland
by J-J-Sawyer-Phillips
Summary: Greetings, Dearies! Welcome to my version of what happens during the upcoming season of Once Upon A Time! I will be focusing on what happens on Neverland. (Most) Sections in all italics are flashbacks or dream sequences. Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with the cast, crew, and creators of Once Upon A Time-tragically. Rating may change for specific chapters.
1. The Jolly Roger

"_There are only two types of animals born in these gutters, lad: Rats and Cats. Now, a rat, you see, well he doesn't last very long. He takes sick with the plague, or he starves quick as a wink. But a cat? Now there's a canny creature! A cat is a survivor, Killian. The same things that kill a weaker thing—hunger, sickness, someone's knife at their throat—give the cat a reason to live. Cats are faster; they hunt down the rats, and the mice, and the fleas; and a cat can steal the cream from a dairymaid, and she'll keep him around because she's none the wiser. Cats hide in plain sight, my lad, and no one knows to be wary of 'em."_

_For as long as he could remember, his Da had said the same thing after every job. After they worked a market day or the annual fair—Da dressed and made up as a blind beggar, and Killian carefully filching trinkets from ladies' purses; after a night of climbing over the roofs of town, keeping his Da limber and fit and teaching the boy how to quietly creep over slate and stone and thatch; after every such adventure, his father would drink deeply of whatever was bought cheapest and share the thief's trade, the pickpocket's code with his son. Their life was easier when they lived in towns; but there was also more danger of being caught, and King Rodrigo was not known to deal kindly with thieves._

_By the time he was ten, Killian had lived in and moved from the portside town at least three times. By far, it was his favorite, not only because it was so large, so vast that a man and his son could disappear in it for much longer; but also because of the sea. Towns by the sea may occasionally smell of fish and brine, but they never stayed hot and stagnant for long. Breezes always cleaned the air, made it fresh and pure to breathe. And those same winds always brought with them ships and sailors with many a strange and exciting tale to be told by the light of a tavern fire. By this time, Da was working as a barkeep, maintaining a front of respectability and sending Killian out at night alone to scout their marks._

_But that night before leaving for "work," Killian sat by an old sea dog, listening to a story of mermaids and an angry, vengeful goddess who calls up all storms. Will Jones watched the boy's face change in excitement, fear, and an ever-present joy as the sailor spun out his tales. He caught the gleam of envy, and perhaps a flinch of pain, as his son asked after the tattoos. Will glanced over at another man who gave a slight nod of his head to indicate his need for another glass. Jones filled a mug with the cheap, thick ale and walked it over. Before he could set it down, a hand flashed out from beneath the table and grabbed his wrist in a bruising grip. He heard the metallic click of a pistol's hammer and froze._

"_D'ye know who I am, Will Jones? D'ye know why I'm here?"_

_Jones knew alright. The first time he had come here with Killian, it had been not too long after the death of the lad's mother. The boy had been five, old enough and strong enough to begin his apprenticeship. A job had come through that was too important; Will would have had to have been a fool to refuse. But taking the job had come with a lot of risks—risks that had kept them from staying in one place for too long and which Jones had thought that he had outrun. He swallowed before nodding his head once. "Aye"_

"_Then ye know that ye're a dead man now. Ye've been a dead man since the moment ye decided to steal from me and mine, but now ye know it. I've come to see yer debt paid up."_

_Slowly, Will Jones lowered himself onto the bench across from the sailor. "I had hoped to never be found out, but I guess that's so much water now, isn't it?" He swallowed harshly again. "You know that I didn't have a choice? My boy—the Dark One said—"_

"_Aye, I know exactly what made ye steal from me, and I know that ye were given little choice in the matter. But the fact remains… ye owe me. I'm a reasonable man; a gentleman of fortune." Jones snorted weakly, then quietly cried out in pain as his wrist was wrenched back viciously. "Easy there, Will, or I might forget my manners. Now, since I am such a reasonable and kindly sort, I'm willing to make ye a deal of my own…"_

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_Though they had lived in the port town before, Killian had never had the chance to actually get on one of the many boats or ships in the busy harbor. But now, he and his Da were going on another adventure, this time leaving the kingdom altogether. Killian ran about, asking everyone what that rope was for or what they called that sail. Will followed slowly, looking a bit green from sea sickness and telling the boy to mind where he was walking and not to bother the sailors. "You'll know all there is to know soon enough, lad. We haven't weighed anchor yet—takes time to learn anything worth knowing."_

_Killian thought he would never fall asleep from the excitement of the day. Watching the sailors in the rigging unfurl the sails, all as one, had been the highlight of his young life. Until he raced to the prow and watched the ship slice through the green-blue water, sending up pearly white spray that stung a little and smelled salty-clean. The captain had even let him near the helm, explaining how the wheel operated the rudder, and so forth. He asked questions until he could think of no more questions to ask. And that night, swaying slightly in his hammock, he shared with his father everything that he had been told, his voice getting fainter as he slowly drifted to sleep._

_Will waited several minutes, listening for faraway, slight snores before rising up out of the hammock. At the cabin door, he turned and looked at the boy one last time. He trudged up the ladder and onto the main deck._

"_Don't look so glum, Jones! At least this way, the boy doesn't hang with ye. And besides, I'm giving ye a full day's head start before the merciful King Rodrigo sets his dogs on ye!"_

"_Aye. Rodrigo would have gladly seen the lad swing, but now I've got my own skin to think of and no apprentice ready to train. That boy was my ticket to an easier life, Read! So don't pretend you're doing me any favors." With that, the fight drained out of Will Jones and he looked exactly like what he was—a tired, old criminal._

_Captain Read smiled, gloating over the thief's predicament. "Don't go telling me ye've gone soft, now Jonesy. We're settled now, and ye can go." With a dismissive flick of his right hand, several of the sailors grabbed hold of Will and forced him down into the row boat. "The lad will wake up soon enough and know ye've left him behind. Anything ye want me to say to 'im?"_

_Jones glared at the pirate, but then his face cracked into a wicked grin. "No. If my boy is a cat like you, like me, then he'll find a way to survive. Cats always manage to survive."_

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Emma Swan stands at the prow, staring out at the night-darkened ocean. Her body, her mind, and her spirit are beyond exhausted, yet she cannot find the strength to do the one thing she needs to do most at this moment: sleep. Her muscles are screaming at her, but she remains on her feet. She has refused to sleep since they came through the portal—right into the heart of a terrible storm. She's glad Hook and Gold warned them to brace themselves, because otherwise they all would have been swept overboard within heartbeats. Rain whipped across her face, stinging like a hundred needles; waves flooded the deck of the Jolly Roger, soaking them all to the skin. Then came the crashes, the wild bucking and plunging of the entire ship over the furious water. She could see Regina and Snow screaming, saw David's lips moving, but she could only hear the angry, bellowing roar of the sea and the furious crack of lightning and what sounded like pieces of a strange, haunting melody. The ropes quickly became slippery, so she wrapped more of it around her arm and searched desperately for a foothold. Her left shoulder is still sore from being wrenched around, from being unable to keep any semblance of balance. It didn't take long for her to mind to stop worrying about everything else and focus on staying alive. That night, like this night, seemed endless.

The storm blew itself out, eventually. The rain drew back like a curtain and revealed a glowing red sunrise. But even the calm and the morning didn't bring any real relief because then there was an education that needed to be acquired as rapidly as possible. None of them had ever bothered learning how to sail, and since the ship couldn't command itself… Being deemed the most physically fit, she and David had climbed up into the rigging, bringing in and letting out sails according to the Captain's shouted instructions. Time and space and thought narrowed to the canvas and hemp in their hands and the narrow yard arms under their legs. Once satisfied with the set of his sails, Hook ordered them down to tie knots. Regina and Snow had already been working under the pirate's direction; Snow excelled in particular, having lived off the land for some time and only needing to remember old skills.

Then had come a quick bite to eat and a division of their group into watches. Snow, Gold, and Regina slipped quietly below to find bunk space and rest. Emma and David clambered back up among the sails when ordered, or remained on deck to practice knots. The watch changed, and Emma watched her father and the Captain take their turn below decks. Gold kept his distance from the pirate as they traded places, and Emma could tell that the two exchanged words—while he may not have liked it at this particular moment, Killian Jones' ship was magically enhanced, and it took someone who knew her or knew magic to captain her. Of the two evils, it said a lot that he viewed Rumplestiltskin as the lesser. But he didn't remain below for very long. It was hot and humid, so their previously drenched clothes were as dry as they were going to get. Emma imagined that as the only person on board with spare clothing, he was probably making the most of it. But he was soon back topside: climbing into the crow's nest or out among the sails, attempting to calculate their location.

She had come up front, since it wasn't her watch, and endlessly played with the short piece of rope in her hands. Tying knot after knot after knot, letting her mind focus only on that bit of hemp sliding between her fingers. Or trying to, at any rate. _Neal is dead. Henry is gone. Hook came back._ A loop of words and thoughts and feelings that keeps time with the knots in her fingers. Until the moment David takes it away from her, and she drops her hands onto the rails in front of her. He says nothing, just stands by her side and stares at her for a while, offering her silent comfort and agitation with his presence. But even her father has only so much strength to watch her suffering, and he finally walks away with a sigh. The watch had changed hours ago and is about to change again. _Neal is dead. Henry is gone. Hook came back._

It's the last of her thoughts that takes up most of her time. Why is she fixated on _him_? Is it easier to think about than the kidnapping of her son, or the death of her son's father? In a way, it's the hardest problem facing her right now, not the easiest. When someone does exactly what's expected of them, you never give it a second thought. But when that constant alters course…? A person willing to change, a person willing to give of themselves freely in order to help others is a person deserving of respect and a second chance. And honestly, what had Neal ever done to deserve _his_ second chance? She shakes her head at this last thought. There was never going to be a second chance for her and Neal, and not simply because he had fallen through a portal to his death. She hadn't lied when she told him she loved him—part of her would always love him, if only because he gave her Henry. But loving someone because of the child you made together and being _in love_ with someone are two separate things. A person you can fall in love with comes back to you, and in her mind's eye, all she sees is a pirate, a man who returned at precisely the moment she needed him most. A selfish bastard who's suddenly her greatest ally in helping her find her son.

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The Jolly Roger should have its captain's undivided attention, but Killian Jones watches _her_. Since her father stopped her maddening fidgeting with that rope, she stands as still as a statue except for the noticeable sway of her body when the ship slices through a particularly rough wave. She seems immoveable, unshakeable, but if there's one thing he knows about Emma Swan, it's that appearances can be deceiving. He doesn't even need to see her eyes to read the grief, the anger, the despair, and loneliness that she's feeling right now. She's always been an open book to him, but now her whole being all but screams the truth of her misery at him. He barely knew Baelfire, but Killian remembers how agonizing it felt to watch Milah's son be taken away from him. He had lost her before he ever met the lad, but it felt as if the last piece of his love, his woman, had died _that_ day. If any flicker of hope had still remained in him, any remote chance of a family—it was gone in a moment. He had had a living, breathing reminder of her, and he let that slip away.

And he also knows what it's like to be helpless as you watch your soul mate die. Emma and Baelfire may not have had the years together that he and Milah did, but they had Henry—a piece of each of their souls forged together by their love to make a new life. How could they not be bound to each other? Killian more than understands her pain—he lives it every day. Which is why he stays at the helm. Despite the fact that every nerve in his body is afire with the need to hold her and offer her words of comfort, he knows that what she'll cherish and appreciate most in these moments is solitude. And so, he watches over her. A flicker of movement on the left reveals to him that Snow has come up on deck. Her gaze is drawn immediately to her daughter, but she reluctantly climbs up by the helm when he calls her up. "Let her be, milady."

Snow's eyes light up, snapping in anger. "She's my daughter. I have to do something to help her! She needs—."

"You'll have to forgive me, but she damn well does not need you coddling her like a bloody child. Emma is your lass, aye, but she's stronger than you're giving her credit for. She's used to being strong because that's all she or that world have ever allowed her to be. And just because she now has a Mum and Da to hold her does not mean she wants to break down and have a good cry with you. Let her handle it. Leave the lass in peace to do her grieving, and then be ready for the storm."

"The storm?" Snow glares at him, curious and confused.

"Aye. Once she's done her grieving, your lass is going to rain fire and hell down on those who dared lay a hand on her boy." He says all this without ever really taking his eyes off Emma and with something that sounds like satisfied pride.

A gleam of understanding comes across Snow's face and a disbelieving awe can be heard in her voice. "You didn't come back to save the town… When she said that you could be alone, or you could be a part of something?... You came back to save Emma. You came back to be with Emma."

Killian keeps his eyes averted and says nothing; her words hang heavy in the air between them for a long moment. "I know a thing or two about having your loved ones taken from you is all. Swan is a rock; she just needs a bit of time to remember that. And I came back because she was right—I've been alone for too long, and to be offered the chance to be a part of something…" He dismisses her with a shake of his head. Snow walks away, but can't stop herself from looking back at the Captain, who can't stop himself from watching over her daughter. She knows that Hook—that Killian Jones is right, that Emma needs time alone and space to think more than anything else. She shakes her head at David, who has been waiting by the ladder for her return.

"I know. You were right. Let's give her some breathing room." She slips her arm around her husband's waist, and they awkwardly go down the ladder together. Once again, only the ocean waves and the wind in their sails make any noise. Killian guards Emma's silence, helpless to do anything, except wait for it to pass.

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Despite his body feeling ready to drop from exhaustion, he prowls around his ship to check for damage. It's a nightly ritual anyway, but even more vital since they sailed through that storm. Neverland itself is still leagues away, and they can't afford to be slowed down by a problem that can be more easily fixed now. He repeats these things to himself over and over, but he knows that his restlessness truly stems in part from leaving the _Roger_ in the Crocodile's hands and mostly from the sleepless beauty up on deck. Somehow, it's become important to him to maintain vigil with her, and again, he tells himself that it's because he pities her. No one can lie to themselves quite like a pirate can.

His ears have become so attuned to his ship over the centuries that any sound out of the ordinary instantly alerts him to any changes. And while the sounds coming from the hold are familiar, they are certainly _not_ ordinary for this voyage. He moves quickly and quietly. He tells himself that he's simply being cautious, in case he's dealing with a stowaway. But in his gut, he knows exactly who and what he'll find. And why. Clearly, Emma has been searching for something because crates and trunks have been shifted around and stacked upon one another. He has no idea where the lass found the strength to move most of them on her own, exhausted as she must be. Now, she has a crowbar in her hands, all but attacking the lid of one of the crates.

"Something I can help you with, love?" Emma looks up at him through her eyelashes, the look deadly, menacing, and anything but coy. He's leaning up against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. "If you fancied a drink, Swan, all you had to do was ask." He flicks his head to the left and walks through the door, back to the main hall of the lower decks. He hears the metallic clank of the crowbar as it hits the floor and her boot-steps starting to follow him. He enters his quarters, leaving the door wide open and motioning her to the desk with his hook. He goes to the cabinet he built into the walls, pulling out a bottle, tucking it under his left arm, and grabbing two cups with his right hand. "Take a seat."

She eyes him warily, but all his focus is on retrieving the wine and other than the nickname, there's no hint of his usual flirtatious self. She practically drops into the chair across from his, and he doesn't miss the wince and pained sigh she lets escape. Bloody hell, but she's determined not to stop moving, not to show him any weakness; but the fact that she's here with him, seeking comfort in her cups is proof enough of how desperately she's clinging to her control. He pours a healthy dose into a cup and puts it in front of her, then does the same for his before he puts the bottle down. Faster than he can raise his cup in a toast, she's wrapped her hand around the bottle neck and begins gulping the contents down. If it weren't killing him to watch her do it, he might laugh or think that it's the most sensual, erotic thing he's ever seen her do. "If your plan is to drown yourself, lass, there's an entire ocean on the other side of this hull. You can spare yourself the dreadful, aching head in the morning, and maybe I'll get to keep some of my stores, aye?"

She barely manages to place down the bottle and grin before her face crumples and she collapses onto the table, fast asleep. "Well, suppose I'll be hiding my best then." Killian sighs, puts down his own cup, and mindful of his hook picks her up into his arms. Thank the gods she left the door to his cabin wide open, otherwise he would have needed to put her down in order to turn the knob, and he finds that he enjoys the way her body feels next to his like this. In sleep, she's relaxed and all of her fences and walls are down. She looks so young and innocent, even though worry still shows itself in the lines of her brow and the tightness of her jaw. Fearsome innocence—that's his Emma. He shakes his head to clear it, banishing the thought; obviously, the lack of sleep is getting to be too much. He finds the cabin she's sharing with her parents, and sends another prayer of thanks to the gods for ensuring that the prince is fast asleep and unable to see his daughter carried in by the pirate.

After laying Emma down as gently as he can, he reaches down and fumbles with the zipper on her boots. Several tries later, he manages to get one of them off her foot and then the other. Other than this, he leaves her clothes be. He stands beside her sleeping form for several moments, just looking at her, just watching. He reaches down to brush a lock of hair back from her face, then turns and heads for his own cabin and his own sleep. That night, he dreams that it's just him and Emma on the _Jolly Roger_, continuing their lessons on how to tie knots.


	2. Becalmed

Bright light pierces through Emma's closed eyelids, uncomfortably warm. Before she's even fully awake, the pain in her head makes its presence known as well. She was surprised that the bottle last night was filled with wine instead of rum, but there was plenty in there to knock her out and give her a hangover this morning. The only mercy from years of drinking alone is that her stomach doesn't feel upset or queasy. She does, however, wonder how she made it to her cabin—a line of thought and a memory that she refuses to chase down. But her mind and body conjure them up anyway, reminding her of strong arms, a solid chest, and a gentle hand seeing to her comfort.

Emma swings her legs over the side of the bunk, noticing a pile of fabric at her feet. When her eyes adjust, she sees that most of it is leather—a more practical fabric for repelling water than denim, wool, and cotton. She's ready to spit nails at the idea of wearing clothes from another world, but then she realizes who they probably belonged to before being placed at her feet. It's both sad and somewhat frightening, being given the clothes of a pirate's dead lover. Heartbreaking that he kept these mementos for so long, clinging to any reminder of the woman he loved and lost, no matter how mundane they are. And terrifying—the idea that he will be constantly comparing the woman wearing them to the one who used to.

She knows that she's over-thinking this, and that he could have kept them for the more obvious reason—that someday another woman would come on board who might need them. Or perhaps they aren't even Milah's at all, since even leather doesn't last forever. Emma sighs before grabbing the hem of her shirt and hisses as she pulls it over her head. For all that her clothes are dry, they had become saturated with salt, so they scratch against her skin as she peels everything off. No fresh water, except for drinking, also means that until they reach dry land, she won't be able to wash any of her normal clothes.

Because the pants are leather and will be hard enough to put on anyway, Emma searches for socks first. What she finds is a pair of what look like knee-high stockings, but in a thicker material. Thankfully, her father has already gone up for their watch, but Emma wishes that Snow were here to help her navigate some of these challenges. _Aren't moms supposed to be constantly around commenting on their daughters' fashion choices?_ She gives up stalling and puts everything on as best she can: pants, then the pale linen shirt; over this goes the vest, which she assumes is supposed to double as a corset; then the belt across her waist to help secure the two garments beneath. Emma notices that there's an empty scabbard attached to this, too tired to really give it much thought. She also finds a very large handkerchief and uses it as a head band to pull her hair back from her face. After putting on her own leather boots, she's as ready as she'll ever get.

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The first thing Emma notices is that everyone is standing around on the main deck arguing, except for Hook, who's up by the helm; the second thing is that there's absolutely no wind or breeze and the sails droop down like bedding on a clothesline. While he's not the first person she wanted to speak to this morning, she knows that the captain is the best possible source for information and answers. "Ah, the princess graces we mere mortals with her presence." He performs an elaborate bow, placing his right hand over his heart before breaking into a grin. "Slept well, did you, lass? After an entire bottle of my best, I should hope so. If you had warned me that you were such a lightweight, I would have given you a spot of ale and... Well." He's back to his flirtatious best under the sunlight, barely a trace of the kinder man of last night remains.

She quirks an eyebrow at him and plants her hands on her hips. "Thank you." Her words are calculated to startle him out of his act and they succeed. "For the clothes this morning and the wine last night. I needed the sleep and wouldn't have managed it otherwise. And another thing: I thought pirates only drank rum or whatever that stuff you call 'grog' is."

"Much you have to learn about pirates, darling. Rum is hard to come by on the seas, and unless you want an entirely bloody useless crew, it's a bad thing to have on board in large quantities. Grog is for your average sailor, a mix of odds and ends and whatever is cheap or the lads take a fancy to. Wine and brandy, though—those are a captain prerogative, love, and I enjoy my creature comforts." His tongue darts out, sweeping across his lower right lip. _That would look ridiculous, if it weren't so damn sexy_. Emma startles herself with the thought, but manages to cover it by giving him her best interrogation-room stare.

"I may have a lot to learn, but even I know that sails aren't supposed to look like that. What's going on? Why aren't we moving"

"In the common parlance, the word is 'becalmed,' lass. No wind or rain, no storms on the horizon means we can't go anywhere. The far less glamorous side of piracy, I'm afraid—being at the mercy of the elements. And the argument you so wisely avoided down there is what we are to do about it."

Emma had turned at his gesture, watching Gold, Regina, David, and Snow yelling or talking back and forth among themselves. "_Is_ there anything that we can do about it?"

"Smart lass to ask such a question, but sadly the answer is no. My ship may be enchanted, but even she needs winds in order to sail. Your parents were hoping that Regina and the Crocodile could whistle up a wind together. The problem with that, love is that-"

"All magic has a price."

His smile gets wider and noticeably brighter. "Aye. Indeed it does. In this case, that storm we sailed through when we arrived was caused by magic—too much magic, unfortunately. Three portals, all opening up close together like that, two of them going to the same realm? Well, that kind of power causes changes, love. Magic is natural to this world, and became natural to Storybrooke once the Crocodile made it so. So, any major pulls on the fabric of reality, on the fabric of nature…"

"And something's bound to unravel." Hook nods at her assessment, secretly pleased that she's caught on so quickly. "So, getting the ship to move is out—what exactly do we do then?"

"I might have a few ideas on the subject, love."

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"Next time, warn me _before_, that your idea involves me doing all the heavy-lifting." She's covered in dust, sweat, and other debris that she doesn't want to look too closely at from moving dozens of barrels, boxes, and crates around a dark corner of the hold. Thanks to his hook, there are not a lot of things that he can pick up and carry without causing damage.

"One of the many perks of being captain, darling—everyone else gets to do the grunt work whilst I delegate. Besides, you were the one who wanted to 'keep busy' and decided against…other, more pleasurable methods of occupying our time."

Emma glares at him over her left shoulder. Despite being stuck down here in the sweltering, still air, Hook looks calm and cool and not a bit effected by the heat. Several sarcastic comments come to mind, but she's too winded to voice them. Instead she shifts another box, hoping that the trunk Hook's looking for is behind this one. It takes another hour or so of searching before they find it. The wood is blackened with time and the elements and the thousands of fingers that have run over its worn surface. "Success at last! Right, Swan, you get one end. There's a good lass."

Together they manage to carry the trunk up on deck. The argument has shifted from what to do about the weather to what the plan is once they reach Neverland. Emma's glad that she managed to miss the worst of the bickering; she may have been griping at Hook down below, but it was more playful than vicious or real. Not to mention that they also _accomplished_ something while sniping back and forth. She had needed a distraction, and the pirate is good at providing those in spades. While searching, he had kept up a steady flow of stories, listing off adventures when they came across a particular object or box. She knew intellectually that Hook had been alive for at least a century or two, but hearing the stories that proved it was something else entirely. The solid thunk of wood and clank of metal against the deck of the Jolly Roger startles the other four out of their fight.

"If you are all quite finished…? Excellent. There is nothing to be done about our predicament, and it is likewise pointless to be debating strategies for what lies ahead when we haven't any clue who or what and how many we will be facing. So, you can make yourselves useful, or you can get off my bloody ship." Snow and David look thoroughly chastised, while Regina and Rumplestiltskin manage to appear offended.

Assuming the authority that has come easy to her as sheriff, Emma crosses her arms and glares at all the others. "He's right. If we can't fix the weather, then we need to figure out what will help us find Henry. Gold, Regina—we have Henry's backpack with us. Is there any way to do a spell that will give us a more specific idea as to where he is?"

Regina thinks carefully before shaking her head. "Not that I know of. The globe was able to tell us what land Henry was in, but Neverland is practically designed to make people impossible to find."

Emma's lips thin in frustration and anger. _What's the point of being able to use magic if it can't do anything useful?_ "Regina is correct, however, that doesn't mean we can't try and think of a solution to the problem. Perhaps a little improvisation is called for, dearie." Rumplestiltskin politely catches his one-time apprentice by the arm and leads her toward the prow.

"And those of us not magically inclined are supposed to do what exactly?"

"Well, Dad, I was thinking that I could use your help. If there was one thing I learned over in the Enchanted Forest, it's that I should probably learn how to fight with a sword. You up for teaching me?" David looks slightly shocked when his daughter says this. Emma is independent and self-reliant, and just yesterday she could barely function beyond following basic commands. He has never been prouder of his daughter than at this moment, or more grateful for the trust that she is slowly beginning to show him and Snow.

"The princess is correct. She's got good form, good instincts—she knows how to fight dirty, but not how to fight with a blade. Too reliant on pistols." Hook's grin widens when Emma glares at his assessment. With a wink, he then turns to Snow and bows to her with an elaborate flourish. "As for you, milady, would you care to spar? I promise to be a perfect gentleman."

The last comment is directed at David, hand held up as if protesting innocence. Charming nods once at the pirate. "Now, I know that there is not quite the selection of a royal armory aboard, but needs must and all." Hook unlocks the chest, revealing a random assortment of daggers, swords, knives, and even an axe or two. Each one is either wrapped in soft wool or a scabbard to protect the precious, vital weapons. Emma has no idea just how many worlds and cultures are represented in this one trunk, how many vanquished enemies, how many battles. Each blade is a work of art, a thing of deadly beauty.

David immediately gravitates toward one of the long swords. The guards point away from the grip and their ends are shaped like leaves. The pommel is also leaf shaped and in the metal emeralds have been embedded that are cut to mimic nature's greenery . The length of the blade is etched with a vine and leaf pattern that echoes the pommel and guard. The sword is a testament to the high art of smithing—refined, specialized, and elegant. He tests the balance, whirling and slicing the blade through the air in a circular series of motions. Clearly pleased, he rests the point down on the deck and steps back from the weapons' chest.

Snow is next, searching until she finds a light blade. To the untrained eye, it closely resembles a rapier, with intricate swirls or rings surrounding the sword's grip which will protect the fighter's hand. The grip itself is old, worn leather and the pommel, rings, and guards are an aged gold. Clearly, the last person to wield it cared for it a great deal. But the blade is wider than a typical rapier, giving it a more Italianate flair, and etched with a diamond design. Much shorter than her husband's choice, the sword is also more flexible, designed for speed and stealth as opposed to brute force.

Emma takes much longer than either of her parents, lifting first one sword and then another. A length of bright blue fabric catches her eye, and the second she touches it, she somehow knows that this will be the one. When she flips the wool aside, she finds a blade that is a strange combination of several different types of sword. Like the cutlass, the curved edge is the sharpest; but the entire blade is wider and the lowest fifth, closest to the point, curves more dramatically like the scimitar. It has a much sharper point than even Killian's. The guard is straight and unembellished with a finger rest that extends a short distance above the grip to protect the swordsman's knuckles. The grip is made of bone overlaid with a metal that looks like copper and the pommel and guards are the same. Her chosen blade is deadly and functional, with very little in the way of artistic flair. It looks and feels old—so old that the sword seems almost to radiate a force, a personality all of its own. Without any hesitation, Emma takes the blade from the chest, stands up, and faces her father. "So, how do we get started?"


	3. The Home Office

**A/N: Some of you might have been asking yourselves, "hey, what about Storybrooke?" or "where are Henry, Greg, and Tamara?" I answer one of those questions…. Now. (:**

"The Home Office has been looking for you for a long time, Henry. For centuries. If my father hadn't taken me camping in Maine all those years ago… Now I know that his sacrifice wasn't in vain, because we were the ones to find you." Greg talks quietly, but still loud enough for Henry to hear over the jungle noises surrounding them. He can't help staring because the vines and trees—which are flat and gray colored—pull away when Tamara comes within a few feet of them. _All the plants… they're really moving!_ But neither of the adults seem to notice or care that the jungle clearly has a mind of its own. Or is it someone else's mind?

"You are gonna change _everything_, Henry! This war against magic has been going on for far too long. But soon it will be over. All of the agents we've lost, all of the creatures we've faced down and destroyed… they were all worth it because now you're going to put a stop to them all!"

"But—but I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for magic! My Gramps and Gram and Mr. Gold…"

"They brought magic where it didn't belong, Henry! And how many times has your life been in danger _because_ of magic?! It doesn't matter—magic shouldn't exist in _any_ world. Soon, you'll see the light." Henry didn't understand them at all; how could they be so opposed to magic, so against its use, but they clearly had no problem using the bean to open the portal to…wherever it was they were right now.

"I still don't get it. I want to go back to Storybrooke; I want my family."

"You're better off without them, kid." It was the first time Tamara had spoken since they came through and the chilly harshness in her voice scared Henry. He had sensed back home when they first met that she didn't like him very much, but thinking it and _knowing_ it are very different things—knowing he had something to fear versus being afraid in general. Useful information to have, but still scary. "Once you meet the boss, everything will be clear to you. And then you'll be on our side. On the _good_ side."

Henry knew without a doubt that his family was already on the good side, but arguing with these two would get him nowhere. Despite the fact that they seemed to be controlling the forest of plants around him, they hadn't stopped to take the ropes off of his wrists. Even if he managed to get away, he doubted that he would get very far. He had no resources—no backpack, no food, no water—so he wouldn't last very long on his own. And he _had_ to get back to his Mom and family. _I promise, Mom, I'll do whatever it takes to get back to you. Just like you did for me._

Suddenly, Tamara stops walking as if she's reached a wall, and Greg pulls on Henry's arm to indicate a halt. She puts her hand out and her fingers start moving like there's an invisible keypad in front of her, and then she acts as if she's turning a handle and opening a door. Even her and Greg's cryptic warnings somehow aren't as frightening as the evil mime routine. His grip on Henry's arm tightens and he pushes him forward, Tamara still pretending that she's holding the door open for them. A sheet of gray vines pulls back, revealing a wide clearing that's littered with boxes and crates. In the center is a very large tree-house—an honest to goodness house that has been built in and around a tree. Adults in white lab-coats are using the crates as workstations, typing away at computers or measuring liquids in beakers and watching the chemical reactions.

"W-what's going on here? What is all this?"

_This is where all of __**my**__ magic happens, Henry_. He jumps because not only has a shadow with glowing yellow eyes sprung up in front of them from nowhere, but the voice comes from _inside_ his head.

"Yes, father, we've finally found him." Greg speaks as if in response to someone's question. Henry looks up and sees that the man is addressing the shadow.

"We activated the trigger, as you requested. And you were right—they found a way to disable it. Two of the magic wielders—the queen and the Swan woman. So, Storybrooke itself and all of the magic tied to it remains. But we did manage to destroy all of the portal beans before we returned." Tamara speaks to the shadow as well, and Henry wonders what the other side of the conversation sounds like. If he can figure out what's going on, what it is that they want, then maybe he can work out an escape plan.

"No, we got all of them. Unless they have another way of making portals, there shouldn't be any problems with unwanted visitors."

"Of course, father." Henry now sympathizes with cartoon characters, whose head practically spin looking back and forth between one person and another. But suddenly, Tamara is untying him, giving Henry hope for the first time in what feels like days.

_I wouldn't bother with an attempt at escape, Henry. You're smart enough to know that even if I did allow you to leave, you wouldn't survive out in the jungle on your own._ Greg and Tamara walk away, headed for the tree-house and whatever is waiting inside.

"Who are you? Where am I? And most importantly, when can I go home? I have a family who will do anything it takes to find me, and I will do the same to get back to them."

The shadow reaches out and grabs Henry's in a rough, cold grip. He can feel the warmth and heat flowing out of his skin and into the darkness. _Such brave words. I'm sure you believe that they're true. But I'm afraid that reuniting you with your family just isn't possible._

"How are you doing that? And what was all that before with Greg and Tamara?"

A hollow chuckling fills Henry's head, a sound that reminds him of dried leaves and an angry rattlesnake's tail. _This is the only way I can communicate. I project my thoughts to the person I wish to speak with. As for them, those two are Lost Ones, Henry. I allow many of them to spend time in other lands and grow up when it suits my purpose. Those two believe that I am a priest of one of the religions in your world and that they are soldiers in a Holy War to destroy all magic. All this: instead of this tree house they see a building full of laboratories and armories and barracks. They believe that we have been trying for centuries to eliminate magic altogether, the fools. They both were desperate, unfortunate souls who were touched by magic, and I simply turned their anger to my own uses. They were reporting to me, as they believe that I am their commander. They want a world without magic, and so I let them see what they want to see and believe that such a world can exist._

"But who are you? And what do you want with me?"

_All things in good time, Henry. Let me answer some of the simpler questions first. To begin with, you are currently in Neverland, and I am known as Pan. Have you ever studied any mythology, Henry? The beliefs of the Greeks and Romans?_ Henry shakes his head to indicate that he has not.

_Well, to make a very long story short, I am a god. For the most part, your world has stopped believing in deities like me, but that doesn't mean that we don't exist or never existed. Some of us faded when people stopped worshipping; other became mortal or travelled to other realms. But we are all very, very real._

"Do all gods look like you do? I mean, like…" Henry gestures back and forth between himself and Pan.

_No, Henry. When the major gods began to fade, I decided that it was time to seize some of the power that had long been denied to me. But I underestimated how strong they still were, and for my arrogance, they cursed me. They separated body and soul, so now I must live this shadowy existence. But the gods also underestimated me! They forgot that it was I who first taught Apollo the gift of prophecy! And so I knew that one day a boy would come who would be able to help me regain my former glory, and who would allow me to take the power I have always dreamed of. And just as I knew he would, that boy has come._


	4. Swords and Sympathy

"Your center of gravity is very important when you're fighting with a sword. Unlike a fist fight, you can't get too close without risking major damage, so you have to be ready to move quickly. What you want to do, Emma, is shift most of your weight to the front half of your foot. But don't pull your heels up off the ground! Keep your opposite foot out in front and never step forward with the foot on your sword arm side if you can help it—it leaves you vulnerable to attack. Watch your mother! Because you may not be as strong as your opponents, you'll need to be faster."

Emma quickly discovers that sword work is not something she is going to master any time soon. She'd always relied on guns for her work as a bail bondsman and then as a sheriff precisely because she knew brute force would win any arguments faster than her fists could. Not that she hadn't bothered to learn kick boxing and how to throw a punch, but she prefers not needing to resort to violence in the first place. Having the most powerful weapon possible in a given situation makes controlling everything that much easier. What little patience she had left after finding the weapons' chest dissipates quickly.

Sensing his daughter's inability to focus, David shows her some simple exercises meant to strengthen her wrists and arms. While she swings her blade in various circles, she watches Snow and Hook spar. Again, despite having twenty-eight years' lack of practice, both are quickly adapting to using the antiquated weapons again. Snow keeps up a continual defense, swirling her blade in more elaborate patterns than Emma has yet seen. Hook tests the edges, lightning quick thrusts that are deflected outward. But then he changes the game.

Clearly having spent his time memorizing the sequence of Snow's movements, he strikes in the dead center of her defense, causing her to jump back rapidly and bring her sword across her body to block. Having broken through, the fight is on from here. Keeping her on the defensive, Jones lashes out with his hook just as often as with his sword, preventing her from maintaining any sort of active measures and forcing her to retreat. David motions to the rigging, silently asking Emma to climb up to get a better view.

"Watch her feet. Notice how she looks like she's standing firmly on the ground? That's how it's done. No rolling up onto your toes. That will throw you entirely off balance."

"Why hasn't she attacked him yet?"

David smiles down at his wife, affection apparent in every line of his face. Emma's heart constricts painfully—her parents' love and devotion is legendary and beautiful to see, but it is also draining to be around constantly. "Snow is very patient when it comes to sword fighting; that and her speed are her greatest assets. She knows that she's not as strong or as skilled, so she watches and waits until there's an opening. Or until her opponent reveals a weakness."

They go back to quietly observing the bout, which has moved up by the currently useless wheel. Hook has backed Snow against the very stern and is pressing his advantage. "You know, your daughter's never going to learn, so long as your husband treats her like a bloody novice. I told him the lass knows how to fight."

"Give him a break, Captain. He missed out on being her father; let him enjoy being able to teach her something for a change. But if it makes you feel better, I'll speak to him about it tonight." Snow ducks low, brings her sword over her head to protect her shoulder and back, and rolls away from the railing. She immediately jumps the stairs, down to the lower deck, forcing Hook to give chase. Her reprieve is short-lived; he is more lithe and thinner than David, hence much lighter and faster on his feet.

"Do. She doesn't have much time, relatively speaking. I'd rather she at least be competent by the time we reach land."

Snow grins, and he has to shake his head to dispel the image of Emma's face; she really does have her mother's smile and chin. "Concerned for our daughter's welfare? David will be so touched to hear it."

Killian grits his teeth and blocks another of her attempted sneak attacks to his left. "As captain, she's part of my responsibility—safety of the passengers and crew on any voyage is a high priority. However, I'm more concerned with making sure I don't have to watch my back as well as Emma's. Although, I must say, the view on offer from there is—" He gets no further, as the point Snow's blade is now pressed against his Adam's apple. There is an amused light in her eyes as she studies his slightly shocked expression.

"I have no doubt that she's more than capable of covering both of your backs. You just have to trust her to do it. That's the way my daughter works: you show her trust, and eventually she'll return the favor." Snow backs up and points her sword to the ground, then spins on her heel and walks over to her family. Leaving a very confused pirate in her wake.

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Emma's watch is over, but despite all that she has put her body through today, she knows that she will be unable to sleep. She stands in front of the door to the Captain's quarters, debating with herself about whether or not to knock. She's so wrapped up in her inner quarrel that she doesn't hear the voices on the other side of the door. ..

_Done with a turn at the helm that has been spent thinking about what Snow said, all Hook wants to do is sleep. Unless a certain blonde drops by, in which case he has a theory to test. He wasn't prepared to find his quarters invaded by Regina. The Queen sat as his desk with a patient smile on her face, one he knew well enough to know that nothing good will happen in the next few minutes. "Your watch is up, my dear. I suggest scurrying along now before the Crocodile becomes vexed with you. Speaking of which, any luck finding the lad?"_

_ Regina's smile dropped at the mention of Henry. "No. Whoever has my son has him well hidden. I honestly don't know how we'll find him." Tears started to form in her eyes, making Hook even more uncomfortable with her presence._

_ "Well, I may approve of neither him nor his methods, but you cannot deny that Rumplstiltskin is motivated enough. If anyone can help us find the boy, it's he."_

_ She looked up at him, eyes glistening. Her pose of tentative hopefulness caused a shiver to run up Killian's spine. He knew that this display, like all other such outpourings of emotion, was simply a face that she was putting on for his benefit. And he was becoming increasingly wary of just why she was pulling the pitiful mother routine. "Why do you always call him that? The lad or the boy? Never Henry and you never refer to him as my son."_

_ Hook sighed and attempted to deflect. "My watch is done, and I do need to sleep, your majesty. Now, if you would please be so kind." He knew that she would not be put off of this permanently, but he certainly did not want to confront this particularly sticky issue now. He escorted Regina to his door and tried to open it for her. Before he could stop her, she grabbed his hand and used it to pull him closer. She never once looked into his eyes, but stared at his lips as if fascinated. He quickly moved away to prevent anything further from happening._

_ "Good night, your Majesty." He opened the door quickly and none too quietly…_

Emma stops in mid-motion, her fist raised as if she were planning on knocking. She sees Regina glaring daggers between the two of them and Hook keeping his gaze glued to the floor. His head is lowered and arm swept out as if in the process of bowing. The Queen scoffs at Emma before raising her nose in the air and stalking out of the cabin. "Bad timing?"

"A mere discussion. How may I be of service, Swan?" He leans against the door frame, blocking the entrance to his quarters, arms and legs crossed in a defensive pose. Whatever just happened, his body language tells her that he has no intention of sharing it with her.

She draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "You told me to ask next time. So…" Her voice trails off, and she stares at the floor, but he knows what she's too proud, feeling too vulnerable to say. If she has to actually ask for his help, then her need and her weakness become too real for her to handle. The Queen's visit temporarily took his mind off of the situation with Emma, putting him on edge, and he quickly moves when he realizes that she is misreading him. His body relaxes and his face softens almost imperceptibly, but it's enough to dissipate some of the tension radiating off her.

"Of course, darling. Where are my manners? Come in." He sweeps his right arm out as if to usher her in, but he moves into the room and gives her his back. The man is acting subtly different, which confuses her. The instant relaxation, the lack of wariness or defensiveness he normally shows, the absence of flirtatious commentary are all completely out of character. Not necessarily bad or unwelcome changes, but unsettling because they are unusual. She anticipated a quip about not being able to stay away from him, or a mention of their proximity to his very large bed—a piece of furniture that she is currently eyeing with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Even calling her "darling" lacks its typical sexual bite.

She tries her best to shrug off the uncomfortable confusion, mostly because Emma knows that without help, she'll be unable to sleep. At least, not without horrible dreams. Her body is sore and she is very aware of muscles that she'd never bothered training before, but her weariness goes deeper than bone. And if she's being honest with herself, she's afraid to show him just how tired, just how weak she is. He came back, but she still expects the other shoe to fall, fears that he will be cruel and heartless. He's slipped out of his jacket and there are two cups sitting on the desk. Once again, she can't help but be an open book to him; he never doubted that she would show up at his door in need of something strong to drink. And maybe stronger company than herself.

"I've had more than my share of nightmares, lass; woken up the whole bloody crew screaming because I watched Milah die again. Rum, brandy, wine—drank more than my own weight a time or two so I could go the night through. But just so we're clear… This stops once we reach Neverland itself. You won't be able to help your Henry if you spend every night drinking yourself to sleep. You need a sharp head every second we are on that island, and we will be out there every bloody day until we find him, love. I swear it to you. If I have to travel to hell and back myself, I will make sure we rescue your son." His conscience sated, Killian gestures to the desk and holds the chair out for her.

He may not realize it, but she does—this is the first time he has said Milah's name in Emma's hearing. She suddenly feels compelled to say something, anything to him. She grabs her cup, tosses the whole of it back, and feels the burn of the rum slide down into her belly before she blurts out the first words that come to mind. "I told Neal that I love him." _NOT what I was planning on saying_.

Emma drops her head onto one of her palms, missing the flash of emotion in Killian's eye. Anger roars through him at her words and it's all he can do to place his cup back on the desk.

He carefully grips the neck of the bottle and, for a moment, contemplates drinking the entire thing like she did the night before. Baelfire—the boy who refused to be a part of his family, the fool who took the coward's way out and broke this beautiful, strong woman in the process… Killian feels nothing but a deep, dark hatred and a burning desire to kill the man. He aches to let that familiar fiery longing grow, but a glance at Emma's face stops him cold. She looks guilty, if he had to put a name to what he sees in her eyes. "And do you, lass? Do you love him still after all he's done to you and your son?"

He pushes down his rage and waits for her reply, tentatively daring to believe in the growing hope she planted inside him with that passionate plea back at the diner. After Baelfire was already gone. _You can be a part of something_… No matter what her answer is, she's offered him the chance to be in her life, and he'll be damned if he won't find a place for himself. "He's Henry's father."

"You know that doesn't automatically qualify him for sainthood, aye?" He refills both of their cups and places the bottle down deliberately, still reigning in and dampening his fury. Emma snorts, then picks hers up and rolls it back and forth between her hands before downing the contents and reaching for the bottle.

"I don't know if I even understand it completely, but the simple answer is yes, I still love him. I know that it's stupid and ridiculous and that even if he hadn't—died, then things wouldn't have worked out between us. But that sixteen year old who tried to steal a car from a thief? She's still a part of me somewhere, and she's blind to everything except for the fact that he was the first person to ever give a damn about her." Killian watches as another cup full of rum slides down her throat and can't help but see himself, all those long years ago, in the woman sitting in front of him.

He fills their cups again, puts hers in her hand, and raises them both. "To our lost ones and the loves that never die."

Emma smiles at the feeling behind his words and because he has started to look blurry around the edges. "I'll drink to that, Hook."

Not much later, he's supporting a staggeringly drunk Emma on her way to her cabin who is insisting on trying to teach him some song about pirates. It's a rather silly, uninventive thing listing off various acts of piracy and he can barely understand what she's saying since she's slurring so badly. "C'mon Hook, you ss-sh-sshh-should to-tally learn thish."

"You, princess, are absolutely smashing drunk and I will do no such thing. And while we're at it, try using my real name for a change."

Emma's face contorts into a frown, then a pout. "But I thought…" She starts giggling, an honest-to-gods giggle from take-no-prisoners, ultimate bad-ass Emma Swan. "S'right. It's not. You din't alwaysss have a hook."

"So glad to offer myself up as your entertainment for this evening, darling. Though, if I had it my way, you wouldn't be sleeping alone on this hard, unyielding bunk and you would be distracted with far more pleasurable pursuits."

Emma's eyes narrow, but quickly lose focus. She slumps down onto her bunk and leans her whole upper body against the wall while he kneels down to help take off her boots. "'Nough in-innuendoes for tonight, Killian Joness."

"Ah, so she _does_ remember! I knew you couldn't stop yourself from constantly thinking about me!" He moves in close and brushes a kiss against her temple. He breathes in the smell of her hair—salt and sunshine and something essentially Emma. His lips ghost along her ear and he smiles at the breathy hitch he elicits from her. "And it's hardly innuendo if I mean absolutely every word I say. Sweet dreams, princess."

It takes all of his willpower to walk away and not kiss the shocked expression from her face.


	5. Family Matters

She doesn't know if it's the rum or his words that have her so dazed. _What the hell does he mean, he means every word?! Which words? _That she wouldn't have to sleep alone? That she wouldn't have to _be_ alone? Emma snorts indelicately, convinced that the pirate is just trying to get her off balance again. He seems to delight in needling her, looking for breaking points and weaknesses. And unfortunately, he's very adept at finding all of hers. She gives up struggling with her leather pants, leaving them on, but taking off the belt and vest to get more comfortable. She lays back with her head resting on her arms, remembering the last time someone promised her that she'd never be alone.

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_Emma sits in a chair that practically swallows up her little, three year-old body. The lady behind the desk, who has been talking to her Mommy and Daddy for the last half hour, looks really sad every time that her eyes land on the small girl, who is well-behaved and coloring quietly while the adults discuss a future that she can't understand. "Mr. and Mrs. Greene, let me be frank here: it's a highly unusual request that you are making. You went through the lengthy application process, spent what I presume is quite a bit of money in court costs alone, and now you are saying that you want to relinquish custody of Emma back to the state of Maine? Most couples wait years for adoptions to go through! Typically, a child is only returned to foster care because of behavioral issues or provable economic hardship."_

_The couple looks at each other, obviously bothered by the censure in the social worker's voice. He grips his wife's hand firmly before speaking. "We appreciate your candor, Ms. Swan. This was a hard decision for us to make. We had given up on having a baby of our own, which is why we adopted Emma in the first place. When we found out that Mandy was pregnant, we knew that it was a miracle—that our prayers had been answered. We'll be just as honest with you: we only ever planned on having one child. We want to devote all of our time and energy to __**this**__ baby, and we don't want Emma to ever feel slighted or unloved because she's not technically ours."_

_Excuses and counterarguments bounce back and forth, but the Greene's are adamant. Now that Amanda is starting her third trimester, they want to make a clean break before Emma can get too attached to the idea of having a sibling or staying with them. It's when they attempt to leave that their perfect plan goes to hell. Mark ushers his wife toward the exit, and she walks out to their car quickly without a backward glance._

"_Where's Mommy going? Why does she look so sad?" He bends down on one knee so that he's eye-level with the girl who has been his daughter for just over two years. Seeing the concern and love in her light green eyes, he bites back the words that he had planned. He's never been called a strong man, and now he can't bring himself to tell this trusting innocent the truth._

"_Mommy and Daddy are going on a trip. You're going to stay here, and Ms. Swan is going to take care of you. So, you be a good girl and a good listener, Emma." He gets up from his knee and starts to walk out to the parking lot, when all of a sudden there's a weight attached to his leg. She hugs him just above his knee, closing her eyes in contented assurance at his words._

"_I promise. I love you, Daddy." She looks up at him expectantly and can only be confused, when he gently pries her arms from around his thigh and leaves. She stands there in the hallway, staring at nothing until the social worker, who has been watching from the doorway to her office, takes her by the hand. She leads Emma toward the dormitories—the halfway house that this child will call home until she can be placed with a foster family. _

"_Emma, I need to ask you something. Do you understand any of what just happened?" The lady looks even sadder now, as if she's ready to cry._

"_Daddy says that he and Mommy are going on a trip. He said you'll take care of me until they get back." She says this with such absolute conviction and authority, that Evangeline Swan can't help but start to tear up. She smoothes a hand down baby-blond curls and kisses the little girl's forehead._

"_I'm so sorry, sweetie."_

"_Why are you sorry? Mommy and Daddy will be back soon. And then I'll have a baby brother or sister. And then we'll be a __**big**__ family!" She doesn't have a hard heart or a cruel bone in her body, so she lets little Emma hold on to her faith and her belief for just a little while longer…._

_In three months, she gets placed in a foster home, with a couple who only takes in young girls. They are nice enough, but getting on in years, so everyone knows that this is not a permanent home for her. Ms. Swan holds her hand as they walk up the path to the small house. The door is opened by a woman with short white hair and a kind, wrinkled face. "Well hello, dearies! Come on in!"_

_Evangeline helps her put her things away and has no choice but to notice how shabby all of the furniture and bedding is. She knows intellectually that there was no other option, but her heart goes out to the tiny child who threw only one tantrum when she was told that her parents were not coming back and then never cried again. She breaks her own unspoken rule and asks Mrs. Schultz to be extra caring to this particular little one before walking out the door._

_The older lady, who is not her Mommy and is not Ms. Swan sits her down in the kitchen and gets her a cookie and a glass of milk. "Now, dearie, I know this is going to be hard, but I want you to feel welcome here. Your name is Emma Greene, right?"_

_The little girl looks at her with eyes that seem much, much older than three. "No. My name is Emma Swan."_

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Emma remembers crying the day she realized that Mark and Amanda weren't coming back for her. Until the day Henry was born and he was taken out of her arms and her life, it was the last time she had ever cried. She had been told over and over by so many of the other inmates and the corrections officers that he deserved a better life than what she could give him. She remembers the day she finally broke down and agreed to sign the closed adoption agreement. Even that day, she hadn't cried; it was giving her baby over to the nurse, the one who had been too late to help her delivery him, that caused her to curl up in a ball and weep for her loneliness, to cry for having no choice but to abandon her son the way that she had been.

Emma closes her eyes, but the memories are still there on the surface. Stupid, pirate!—ruining her buzz and making her remember things that were better forgotten. She shifts onto her side, punching the sorry excuse for a pillow, and praying that sleep comes quickly and without any dreams.

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She stands on the deck of the Jolly Roger, facing down Hook with her sword in her right hand and a dagger in her left. The light of Neverland's two moons bathes them both in a half white and half red glow, making every shadow stand out in sharp relief. "Tell me why we're doing this again?"

"Because, love, whilst your father is an excellent swordsman, he knows bugger all about giving someone like you proper instruction. He was teaching you how to fight with sword and shield; you don't have the one, and you're best served by knowing how to use two weapons against an opponent with the same. You go at one of the Lost Ones the way the Prince expects you to… Well, let's just say that being stabbed by me would be a far more pleasant experience all around."

His tongue flicks out, wetting his lower lip, causing Emma to roll her eyes at him. He also waggles his hook back and forth as if to emphasize his point; the steel catches the moonlights, making it look as if splashed in liquid silver and blood. Emma's distraction lasts only a second, but it is enough. With the speed of a lightning strike, he has her pinned back against his chest with his sword at her throat. His hook circles her wrist, sharpened point lightly pressing into the veins and thin skin, which prevents her from even thinking about moving her sword arm. Slowly, he slides the cool metal up under her sleeve and along the unprotected softness of her forearm. When he speaks, she feels his warm breath caress her ear. "First lesson, love: never lose sight of your enemy. Distractions… end up with you dead."

She isn't sure what makes her whole body tingle more—the steel at her throat and arm, the threat in his words, or the heat of him at her back—but she can do nothing to stop the shudder that rolls up her spine. "I thought that we were done being enemies."

He smiles at that, and the air catches in Emma's throat. When there's pure amusement in his eyes—no cynicism or cruelty or jadedness—he is transformed from dangerously handsome to absolutely stunning. She wonders just how long it's been since anyone has seen him like this. "How old are you?"

He lowers his weapons and throws his head back with laughter. "Gods, lass, but you are forward! Because of all the years here in Neverland, can't say for a certainty: time moves much faster than in your world or mine."

Emma cocks an eyebrow at this. "You know, we _are_ from the same world, Hook. I was _sent_ to the Land Without Magic, but I was born where you were."

"How about this then: you stop calling me that, and I'll _consider_ telling you how long I've been captain of this ship."

"You suddenly have a problem with the name you chose for yourself?" It takes her a second to figure out that she's said the wrong thing. The brightness fades from his expression, replaced by a coldness that she's all too familiar with. She can practically see every layer of mask that comes up between them again.

"Second lesson: your opponent won't let you talk him to death." She's ready for the attack this time, bringing her sword up to deflect his blow. But she keeps forgetting the blasted hook, which sneaks in to her right and catches hold of her by her belt. This time, her chest ends up flush against his. Their noses practically touch, but there's no humor in the set of his mouth and eyes.

"Next time, cross your blades to stop my sword, dagger to the outside. Keep your right wrist loose, then you can use it to block my left." He backs away, releasing her so quickly that she stumbles. But he doesn't give her any breaks, coming after her again immediately. She blocks the sword and the hook, gets in a thrust of her own, but leans too far forward. Off balance once more, he easily has his sword at her heart.

"You're thinking too much, Swan. You know how to fight! Use it against me! If you had fought like this at Lake Nostos, I would've done more than simply had you on your back, lass. What's stopping you? Where's that fiery, saucy wench that bested me with one swing?"

Emma knows that he's trying to make her angry, and it _is_ working, but she also knows that he's right. She's off her game; she's not fighting back like she knows she should. And part of it is because her emotions are spiraling out of control; she has no clue what she's feeling, just that it's intense and unsettling. Hook—Jones is right; she needs to be strong. All of the lessons she learned about never caring, never letting yourself get hurt, never letting people see you bleeding… she needs to remember them now.

She flips the dagger so that it points toward her elbow and takes a wild swipe at his throat. She plans for him to dodge her weapon, and as expected, he jumps back quickly to avoid the blade, his eyes lighting up with both surprise and satisfaction. "Enough! Point taken, Jones."

A tilt of his head is the only acknowledgement she gets before he resumes attacking her. They dance back and forth, efforts punctuated by terse commands and moments where she ends up "dead." All the while, Emma watches his body. Every movement is calculated, efficient, and lethal. There are no flourishes this time, no spins or fancy footwork like when they fought in front of the portal. Killian Jones moves and strikes like a jungle cat or a cobra, all boneless grace and flexibility. Anywhere he thinks that Emma is vulnerable, he lashes out. His one weakness: his reliance on his hook over his sword. She wonders how no one has figured this out before, then realizes that she and Snow are probably the only people to win a fight against him in quite a long time. She fakes a stumble, trying to lure him closer and off balance. He takes her bait and when he raises his sword high for a downward strike, she kicks his legs out from under him.

As soon as Killian hits the deck, Emma pins him by straddling his waist and holds her dagger against his neck. She flicks his cutlass out of reach with her sword, earning a colorful curse. Giving him no time to think or reevaluate, she grips the hook, twists, and removes it. Approval lights up his face before he looks down at the position of their bodies and an amused smirk takes its place. "I know you lied."

He meets her eyes, clearly confused by the change in unspoken topic. "When you said that I was useless; when you said that you were done with me; I knew even then in that cell that you were lying. But I couldn't tell if it was me you were lying to, or yourself."

The air is suddenly electric, tense, and unbreatheable. He's inexplicably parched and licks his lips in a self-conscious, nervous gesture. Emma bites her own and smiles down at him, a lazy, seductive grin. "You keep doing that. It's very, very… distracting. And one day, Jones, if you aren't careful…" Without removing her blade from his throat, she leans in and slides her tongue along the same path his took before gently, chastely kissing him. It's the shortest, most innocent kiss he's ever been given, but he feels as if the entire universe has fallen, been rocked to its foundation. Her eyes sparkle with something unutterable, as green as he's ever seen them, and her smile is bright with mischief and mystery.

"Killian Jones, speechless! I never thought I'd see the day." With a laugh, he cups her cheek with his right hand and pulls her back down for another, deeper kiss.

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Gray light filters through the glass portholes, waking him almost instantly. One of the many things learned from far too many years at sea: the slightest change in light or weather causes Killian's entire body to go on the alert. He shakes his head to clear it of the last wisps of sleep and dreams. He's never had much difficulty going directly from a dead slumber to instant wakefulness, but this morning is different somehow. He laughs at himself—perhaps his age is starting to show, although he can't remember a single instance of such dullness and lethargy on his part before undertaking this voyage. Maybe it's the return to Neverland and its altered flow of time that has him feeling exhausted like this. Regardless of how his body and mind feel, he has a ship to captain and duties to fulfill.

He takes over at the helm and watches the sunrise over the horizon. There's still not a speck of cloud in the sky; another day becalmed and no closer to rescuing the lad, unless he misses his guess. He notices several breaches and splashes in the distance and pulls out his glass for a better view. Creatures that look part seal and part human surge up out of the water, only to dive back down gracefully. According to his calculation of their location, it should be a pod of Roane—the seal-folk. They are a kindly, benevolent sort of fairies and much less bloodthirsty than their Selkie relatives can be when provoked. If this is the pod he remembers, then they might be able to trade for help moving the ship, or for information.

But for the moment, the fair ones are too far away and too wary to be of any assistance. And a storm of the human variety is brewing closer to hand. The Prince and Rumplestiltskin are arguing once again about whether or not to use magic to help them out of their predicament. "As Regina told you, our efforts at finding Henry were unsuccessful. We _know_ who has him, your majesty. That is not our problem. Finding something that doesn't want to be found is."

Killian feels sympathy for both men, strangely. Although he hates to admit it even to himself, the Crocodile is right—the hardest part of this rescue mission will be finding Him. But he also understands the frustration the other man is feeling at being powerless to help his grandson. _Their grandson_. He shakes his head, the complicated network of familial relationships still baffling to him. "You keep saying things like that! Who is this person who has Henry? Would you please, for once, stop being vague and cryptic with your warnings and tell us what is happening?"

For the first time, Killian notice just how old the Dark One appears to be; he wears the burden of his years much more visibly now that they are in Neverland. He doesn't look conniving or evil—he looks like a man who has lost his son and his grandson in one day. The old man sighs heavily. "Once the ladies have joined us. I'd rather not have to tell the tale again." Charming immediately rushes below deck. Because their cabin sits underneath the hatch closest to the helm, Killian can hear the murmured, sleepy responses of Snow and Emma when David goes in to wake them. He chuckles quietly to himself—either Emma isn't a morning person, or her rest was as pathetic and unrefreshing as his own. _Serves the lass right! Invading a man's dreams like that!_ He can hardly blame her for _his_ fantasies, but a part of him feels a petty gratification at her suffering. That harder, darker part of himself doesn't like where things seem to lie with Emma Swan.

It isn't long before the ladies and Charming find their way back up onto the deck Snow and Emma are both wearing the clothes he provided for them, but the queen is stubbornly clinging to the garments she brought with her. Granted, she's probably used magic to keep them clean, since she looks just as fresh as the moment they left Storybrooke. The Prince stands beside his wife and daughter, arms crossed over his chest. "All right, Gold. Everyone is present and accounted for. Now tell us what you know about the people who have Henry."

Rumplestiltskin clears his throat. "Very well, dearie. What we are up against.. Frankly, I am not certain that this is a battle we can win. The shadow—He's a god, or at least He once was. You see—how does that go again? Ah, I remember! Once upon a time, all the many myths and legends from the Land Without Magic, from our world, from all the realms had their roots in truth. Many centuries ago, Emma and Henry's world was ruled by a council of gods, and they each were given names by the Greeks according to their abilities.

"Names are very important—you see, when you give something a name, you give it will, you give it an identity and power. Which is why you must never speak His actual name here in Neverland; if we must, then we should simply refer to Him as He or the Shadow. To do otherwise is to make Him even stronger. So, the primitive peoples of the world first gave power to the Titans and then to the Olympians; but there were some who existed even before this. The being we are up against—He is one of the latter. Legend has it that He helped the Greeks take control and overthrow the old gods, even taught some of these newer deities a trick or two.

"He was a nature spirit, originally, and as such, He hates all civilization and order. He thrives on chaos, anarchy, and debauchery. Actually, you and He have quite a lot in common, Hook." Gold sneers at Killian, clearly attempting to get a rise out of him. Surprisingly, it is Emma who comes to his defense.

"We get it: mortal enemies, you dislike him. But this is his ship and he is the one who got us here in the first place. And more importantly, he hasn't tried killing you yet. So, how about you stop testing his patience and mine and get on with the story." Though her hands are on her hips, her stance mimics her father's. Her whole body screams authority and power, and Killian can't stop a smile. The Swan he knows is back.

Rumplestiltskin bows to her. "Of course, princess, I did forget. That was quite rude of me. As I was saying, his specialty was doing anything and everything that would disrupt social order and was fond of wildness, abandon, and sexual dissolution. It was the last of these that ultimately caused His downfall. He thrived on deceiving and seducing goddesses, nymphs, and spirits. He had a particular fondness for water sprites, mostly for the challenge they presented. There was a certain family, the Nereids, who lost several of their number because these nymphs would inevitably transform themselves into something else in order to escape Him.

"All magic comes with a price, dearies, and the price they paid was eternal—forever trapped in whatever form or shape allowed them to remain chaste. Sometimes, He would take them as souvenirs. The nymph Syrinx, for example, begged her father to transform her into the reeds that grow near slow moving waters. As punishment for thwarting Him, He cut her down and lashed several reeds together to form his famous wind pipes. He even managed once to trick the moon goddess Selene, sister of Nyx and Hecate, whose husband abandoned her when he discovered the liaison.

"But His one true love, was the beautiful nymph Echo. For a while, they were quite happy, and even had a daughter, Iambe. However, after hearing of her disgrace, the sisters of Selene made a deal with Aphrodite, who was already jealous of the nymph's beauty. She had her son strike Echo with one of his poisoned arrows and made sure that she fell in love with the mortal Narcissus. So the story goes, Narcissus had also angered the goddess, and he was cursed to pine away after his own image in a lake. Once the mortal had died, Aphrodite and the other goddesses ripped Echo to shreds, scattering her to the winds, dooming her to only ever repeat what others had said.

"Furthermore, the god Apollo desired that Iambe grow up free of her father's earthy influence, and so the little demi-goddess was taken to Mount Parnassus to be raised by the nine Muses. Now, as you might have guessed, _He_ was not pleased to have His wife and daughter ripped away from Him. But He bided his time, waiting for an era when the gods ceased to be worshiped as they had been formerly, when their powers would begin to wane.

"What happens next is not recorded entirely, but He made an attempt to gain power over some sort of artifact that was in the Olympians' keeping. He had expected them to be weak, but they had been forewarned of His plan. As punishment, they divided His soul from His body, which appears to us as a shadow, and banished Him to this realm. Neverland was created by the gods as a prison, one that He should never have been able to escape from. But as their influence on the world began to weaken, so too did this prison. There are plenty of holes in the fabric of this world, leading to many other worlds.

"Why they chose to take Henry with them, I don't know for certain. But I do know that He has been collecting children since His prison started weakening. The rumor is that there is one child—a special child, born of magic—who holds the key to restoring His powers to Him."

Snow speaks for the first time and when she does, her voice is filled with confusion and concern. "But Henry hasn't shown any signs of being magical."

"Indeed, _he_ hasn't, your majesty. However, he is the adopted son of one of our world's most powerful witches and the natural son of an extremely talented sorceress." Killian isn't the only one startled by this last statement.

The Prince glowers at Rumplestiltskin menacingly. "What did you just call my daughter?!"

"I thought you all knew. It's a title, really. People who don't have magic, but who learn—they are called a witch or a wizard. There are those like myself who acquire power through more direct means—we go by the name conjurors. Your daughter was born with magic, born from the magic of pure, True Love; that makes her one of the rarest wielders of natural magic, and thus a sorceress." The Dark One looks at Emma with a mixture of pride, awe, and…longing. A yearning, perhaps, for the potency of her abilities.

"So, this shadow wants to be reunited with His body, or a body. Why does it have to be Henry? I'm fairly damn certain that he isn't the product of 'True Love.'" Killian laughs silently at the funny gesture she uses with her fingers; some of the figures of speech and actions from the Land Without Magic appear fairly ridiculous to him. He purposely thinks this to avoid the fact that he also feels lighter, happier even hearing her say that what she had with Baelfire was not True Love.

"Because you do, Miss Swan. If even one parent is a magic user, the odds of that child being able to use it increase significantly. At this point, any abilities Henry has are dormant; the Shadow needs a body with magical potential, but little to no training. That way, he can use the latent abilities against the untrained sorcerer and take over the body completely."

Killian steps forward at this point, asking the question that he fears they all know the answer to. "What happens to the lad if He takes over?"

Rumplestiltskin swallows harshly, confirming the truth before he even speaks. "With the Shadow present in his body, young Henry will cease to exist. His soul will travel to one of the Netherworlds. For all intents and purposes, the boy will be dead."

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the overwhelmingly positive response to this piece! An extra special thanks goes to PeaceHeather for clearly giving me some shout-outs and some con crit; and to my fabulous beta, my little Sis. **

**I swear that I know what is happening in Storybrooke also, but every time I try and fit that part of the story in, it refuses to jive with the Neverland plot! I may work on that and present it as a separate piece.**

**Please keep the reviews coming. I'm writing as fast as I can in (mostly) sequential order. (: - J.J.**


	6. Adaptation

Emma pairs up with her father again, trying to learn how to not get herself or anyone else killed. Killian knows that it was just a dream, but he can't help gritting his teeth in frustration. Seeing her go back to using the wrong fighting style angers him, although David has clearly decided that pushing his daughter is better than babying her. He was worried that the Prince might have continued to go easy on her in light of the present circumstances. Despite the crushing news that her son may be dead, or may soon end up that way, Swan has neither broken down crying nor retreated into herself like she did that first day. He's unsurprised that his measure of respect for her rises, but he has no clue where his sense of pride at her resilience comes from.

Regina had begun sobbing the second the Crocodile had told them all that their rescue mission might be futile. Though he would have expected no one to have done so, Snow White had followed the weeping woman down to the cabins to offer her what comfort she could. The amount of forgiveness that woman was capable of almost put him to shame. He can never imagine a time where he will not hate Rumplestiltskin with every breath in his body. He has given up on taking his revenge and he may grudgingly, silently feel pity for the old man, but he will never be able to forget the long years of bitter loneliness and suffering after Milah's death.

The younger queen emerges from the shadows of the hold and, after a quick glance at her family, climbs up the steps toward the helm. He doesn't acknowledge her at first, pretending that the charts and log hold his attention and not Emma's lack of progress. "Well, he's no longer holding back, so that's a start. If he can teach her how to properly fight, then we might actually get somewhere."

Snow glances at him before returning her gaze to her husband and daughter. Her words are spoken matter of factly, yet still startle him. "I'm surprised you didn't offer to train her yourself. I saw the way you two fought by that portal; she'd benefit more, learning from you."

"I'm partial to keeping the one good hand I _do_ have, milady. Your Charming may take many things in stride, but my offer to teach your daughter _anything_ will only end in violence. And since I presume you are rather attached to him…" He lets the threat trail off, but it lacks any of his usual force or bite. Snow's lips quirk up a bit, hearing the unspoken meaning—that Emma's connection to David is just as important, if not more vital, to him.

"Well, if I can't persuade you to help Emma, then I suppose I'll just have to rescue her. Captain." She knows that it's a bit of a low blow, but seeing the infamous pirate flustered is highly amusing to her. With a nod, she descends the stairs with as much regal, imperious flair as she can manage. Snow walks closer to the fighting pair, waiting until the next moment when her daughter will inevitably stumble. Captain Jones is right—Emma needs a different teacher for a different style of fighting.

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At her fifth stumble and "death," she bites back a curse. The way her Dad keeps asking her to move, keeps telling her how to hold her body just isn't working out well. _Why does that stupid pirate have to be right, even in a dream?_ Of course, the burning heat of the sun, combined with the fact that there's no breeze only makes matters worse. She hasn't gotten nearly enough sleep the past few nights, and the fact that it hasn't been peaceful rest has made her even more exhausted. And for some reason—probably the number of falls she's taken, in addition to all the other unusual stresses her body has been subjected to—her ribs are aching with every stretch of her muscles, every thrust of her sword arm.

She notices that Mary Margaret is back up on deck, despite it technically being time for her to rest. The division of the small crew into watches seems pointless with them unable to sail. Her Mom first went up to speak with Hook before coming over to watch the one-sided battle. For being the Savior and the child of two very famous heroes, Emma's feeling more than a little inadequate at the moment. "David."

With that one word, Snow has her husband's complete attention. An unconscious, dismissive flick of his hand tells Emma that she can take a break, and he walks quickly to his wife's side. They begin whispering, but she's too exhausted to care about listening in. She leans her back against one of the masts and closes her eyes until they are just slits. Through them, she watches the pirate, who keeps looking up at the conference currently going on between the royal couple. She's close enough to note the fact that his jaw loosens and his body relaxes a bit, and something almost like approval enters his eyes. She recognizes the look, if only because she saw that look last night in her dream.

Remembering comes with a price though… that kiss for instance. Her lips start to tingle, to ache as if they actual _have_ kissed his before; she's never had a dream that was so realistic. _Maybe it's just been too long…_ She lets the thought fade, unwilling to follow it. She's 29 years-old—raging hormones should hardly be a factor, much less an excuse for kissing a man in her dreams then fantasizing about it later. The best part though wasn't the kiss, but how good his calloused hand felt against her skin—roughened, yet so soothing and gentle… Maybe her hormones _were_ working on over-drive.

"Emma, honey." Her mother's call startles her out of her thoughts. "Why don't you and I try? But I want you to fight however feels most natural to you. I'll give you a moment to get settled and comfortable. Let me know when you're set."

Snow already has her sword out and is in a fighter's stance. Because she's smaller and her sword is longer, both of her hands grip the hilt. Her right hand rests above the left, and her right foot is placed slightly ahead of the other. Taking all of this in quickly, Emma switches her sword to her left hand, pushes herself away from the mast, and stands opposite her mother; she's normally right-handed, but as she learned from the fight at Lake Nostos, her left can handle the sword and that it leaves her right free for punches or another weapon. She recognizes and assimilates that her mother doesn't stand quite the way that her father does—leading with her sword side as opposed to the opposite. Testing, she moves her feet shoulder width apart and leans forward slightly, putting her left out in front. She feels balanced, even-keeled, ready. _Damn pirate just had to be right!_

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_Killian woke at the grumbling of stone on wood—the sailors long since awakened by the dawn and the tedious chores that go into maintaining a ship in proper order. He felt free and light at the thought that his father had finally found them a home. No more jumping from roof top to roof top; no more sneaking from a village or town under night's wings. They may be headed off to all corners of the realms, to see new and ever-changing sights, but the ship and the sea will be an invariable refuge, the only constant in a life marred thus far by upheaval. He finally looked over and noticed that his Da's hammock is empty; if Will Jones is already up and about, then the day must be farther advanced than he realized. He tried to scramble out quickly, but only ended up dumping himself on the floor. It wasn't his most graceful of exits, but with time he'd learn to move with the swell of the tides, just as he had once crept quietly across housetops. Brushing off his knees after picking himself up, he raced out of the hold and out onto the deck. The air was even cleaner out away from land and the warmth on his face was gentle as a god's blessing._

_ He jumped over the brushes, mops, and stones that were being wielded to swab the decks clean, being soundly cursed by several of the older men. Using the ropes as handholds when necessary, which wasn't often, he sprung up onto the railing and skittered along it until he reached the prow. Once again, he relished the sight of endless blue waters and blue sky, possibility and hope filled him, even though he was too young to put those names to his happiness. The first mate slid up behind him and to his right, doing his best to not appear menacing. Killian knew that several of them men were opposed to his and his father's presence on this voyage, his youth considered a liability; this particular mate was one of them. He knew that the captain's will prevailed on his behalf, but only just and that he had to somehow prove himself worthy of being a part of this crew. He also knew how to read people from the years of picking pockets and knew that this man is one who should be avoided and never crossed. "Captain be asking after ye, lad."_

_ "Aye, sir." Strictly speaking, the mate hadn't earned the right to that honorific, but Killian figured that any amount of good will he could buy with politeness would be useful. He quietly and respectfully followed the scarred older man to the Captain's quarters. The interior of the cabin was paneled with dark wood, lending a twilight air to the space. Leaning over the desk, reading a chart was a beautiful dark-haired woman. She looked both perfectly out of place and fully at ease among the nautical trappings: her long hair was intricately braided, but tied back with a simple kerchief; she wielded the compass like an expert and added calculations and notes to the chart and a log; she wore the leather boots and pants so common among the sailors, but her waistcoat and linen shirt were much more feminine and flattering to her curvy figure. The captain's coat and hat hung on a peg on the wall behind her, and it was these that allowed Killian to make the final connection of the puzzle she presented. "You're a girl!"_

_ The woman smiled with obvious amusement and dismissed the first mate with a flick of her head. "Indeed, lad. Nice t'know that Jonesy didna lie about yer brains. Should hold ye in good stead out here on the seas." She started to circle him, as he'd seen buyers do with cattle at horse fairs. The hair on his neck started to stand on end, not just at her words, but at the calculation he could hear in her voice. There was none of the warmth and gentleness he was used to when women spoke to him, no pity or kindness. She glared sharply at him, as though trying to decide something, then sighed. "I can abide no lies nor deception on me ship, so I'll tell ye none. 'Tis one of the first lessons ye'll need t'unlearn from yer Da, boy. Ye ken that he was a thief, aye?"_

_ Killian nodded, but said nothing. "There be no kind way to say what needs said: ye belong to me, to this ship. Yer old Da, well, let's just say that he took summat from the wrong man and got a bounty on 'is head fer 'is pains." Captain Grace Read stared down at the boy, noting the straightness of his spine at the accusation against his father. His loyalty urged him to defend his blood, but his knowledge of Will Jones and their life together kept him silent. He wanted to scream at her, to insist that his Da loved him and would never abandon him. For a thief, the boy had a terrible poker face, and she could easily read every thought and emotion as it passed behind his baby blues._

_ "I see the anger in yer eyes, lad, and the hurt. Bury both inside ye and save em' fer a fight ye can win. Sad truth yer larnin', aye, but truth it be: family all'ays knows the swiftest way to injure ye. He said ye can read and figure sums… what says this here ledger?" A long, slender finger pointed to the last entry on the small book log next to the chart. The writing was small and cramped, but Killian handily made out his own name, the amount of coin that had changed hands, and his father's signature. He hadn't just been left behind—he'd been sold as a slave to secure another man's freedom. Instead of giving him a home, his father had condemned him to a floating prison._

_ "Long as ye can take orders, lad, then all will be well. Ye'll larn a trade, earn yer keep and n'er want fer a meal, and at the end of seven years, be yer own man again. Hate me all ye like, boy, but ye will respect me and every man Jack aboard this ship. Obey orders, larn what ye can, and ye may just go far, Killian Jones." She flicked her head toward the door, like she'd done with her first mate, so he knew that he'd been dismissed._

_ It took him less than an hour to earn his first whipping, his instincts about the first mate being the wrong man to cross proved correct. Grace Read watched with arms crossed and an unreadable expression on her face as the mate secured the boy's hands to the mast. Mercy would not only have been out of character, it would have proven fatal to the entire crew. Killian refused the leather-wrapped bit of wood out of pride. The bite of the lash was cruel, and he felt every inch of all ten stripes. But he did not cry out and allowed none of his tears to actually fall. The older sailors were impressed, yet they offered him no sympathy aside from a bandage for his wounds. Orders are sacrosanct because they all too often mean the difference between life and death in such a harsh world, and every man among them bore the scars to prove that they too had learned that particular lesson the same way that Killian had: the hard way._

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Watching mother and daughter spar, he isn't quite sure what brings that particularly unpleasant memory to the surface, but then that all but defines his whole relationship with Swan. The lass forces up all kinds of thoughts and emotions and reminiscences inside him, and many of them are either unfamiliar to him or believed long-forgotten. Although the years since are not countless, he'd rather not remember exactly how long it's been since he felt the yearning she evokes in him—to be a good man, to be worthy of… something, someone. He frowns, angry with himself as much as her that he has managed to become weak and vulnerable again. He silently swears to himself that he will steer far clear of Emma Swan and everything she's making him hope for, everything she's making him believe in again. Like miracles.


	7. Prisons and Problems

Henry sits with his back against a wooden wall, hands pressed tight over his ears. He has no idea how long it's been going on, but almost the second the sun slipped completely over the horizon a constant wailing cry began. Heart-wrenching sobs, moans, screams of anger, hiccoughs, and sniffling—a chorus of inconsolable weeping and loneliness. For a while, he had paced back and forth, talking loudly to himself about anything he could think of: counting off the number of paces on each wall (15); names for his various escape plans—Operations Mongoose and Dragon's Breath being his favorites; the number of total squares created by the bars carved into the tree to make his window (14); the number of exits he could fit through (1). At one point, he had tried reciting as much of his storybook as he could from memory, but thinking about Snow and David and Regina and Rumplestiltskin led directly to thoughts about his parents. He knew that Emma would come and save him because that's what she did—she found and rescued people who were lost and needed help. But his Dad, who he'd just started getting to know…

That's when he'd sat down and tried to block out all the sounds, because all of the other children's pain and loss were striking a chord deep in his own heart. He hadn't ever really been abandoned, he believed that; but his heart was big enough, compassionate enough to want to share and ease the sufferings of all those lost and desperate souls out there. He was incredibly tired, and there was a hammock slung up in his prison cell—Pan, Greg, and Tamara hadn't pretended that it was anything else—but aside from the noise, he couldn't bring himself to fall asleep. Going to sleep meant waking up from this long, horrible day and facing the truth of everything that had happened.

And just like that, his mind was back to how the day began with Emma telling him that Neal had been killed by Tamara. Hands still covered his ears, but Henry finally couldn't hold back his tears any longer and a few slipped past his guard. He closed his eyes for just a moment before being startled by a soft voice. "Boy, why are you crying?"

His eyes shot open, and he looked around frantically for the source. Small hands were wrapped around the bars of his window, and black eyes peered at him in the gray light. Wiping his face on his sleeve, Henry stood up and walked over to the stranger—a girl about his age, maybe younger, with silvery-white hair. "My name is Henry, and I'm locked up in a prison cell inside Hangman's Tree. Somewhere there's a whole bunch of kids screaming and wailing hysterically, and you're asking _me_ why _I'm_ crying?!"

The little girl giggled and smiled brightly at him. "I knew I was going to like you, Henry."

"Wait. You knew I was going to be here? What's going on? Why am I here? Can you help me get out?"

"I can answer your questions, Henry, but I have to do it fast and you have to promise me something in return. Pan is coming to see you soon; he's going to ask you to do something for him. Whatever he says he'll give you in return, however he threatens you or your family… You have to tell him no. Can you promise me that, Henry? Can you swear not to give in to him?" Her voice is still high-pitched and childlike, but the words and the urgency are very much older. Since this _is_ Neverland, odds are that this girl is far, far older than even his Mom or Grandparents.

Henry nods his head quickly. "I promise. Please tell me: what's happening?"

"The Shadow needs your body, Henry. Simply put: he's very angry over losing his and wants to settle old scores. But he can't just take over—you have to agree to let him. In order for him to regain his powers, a free-will sacrifice is required. If _you_ are that sacrifice, Henry, if you give in to him thinking that it will save your family… Not only will your family surly die, but the entire world would be in danger. Don't lose your faith and hope, Henry. Your family is here—they found a way to follow you and are even now on their way to save you." The girl startles as if she hears something he can't and looks over her shoulder. The sky is becoming bluer, less gray—dawn is on its way.

"I have to go now, but I'll be back as soon as I can. Oh, and don't let Him know that you know what He's after. Have faith, Henry. Stay strong." Her face and hands disappear from the other side of the bars. He leans forward, desperately looking for his only friend in this place. She somehow managed to find footholds in the tree trunk and is using them to climb back down. In as loud a whisper as he can manage he calls out to her.

"I promise, I will. And thank you… Wait! What's your name?"

She looks up at him over her shoulder and smiles. "You're welcome, Henry. And you can call me Trinity." A mischievous giggle escapes from her before she runs off into the dark gray shadows of the forest. The sun breaks over the horizon, turning the sky into a brilliant rainbow of colors. Everything else around him—his cage, the plants and trees—remains flat and dull and lifeless. Henry watches the play of yellows, pinks, greens, and blues with new hope; his family is here, and they will find him. They never leave family behind, and they always find each other.

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Emma knows from watching the fight yesterday that Mary Margaret tends toward defense and caution. She nods and goes straight at her, preventing the other woman from starting her usual swirling pattern. She channels all of her frustrations into her attack—the restless nights, the fear for Henry, the lack of movement and progress here in Neverland, the fragile and chaotic state of her feelings—every ounce of negative emotion flows through her body and into her sword. Soon, Snow is not just on the defensive—she's on the run. _Well, at least we've fixed __**that**__ problem._ She barely ducks her daughter's blade—a fierce swing that has the force of her entire body behind it. Given an outlet for her feelings, Emma's deep well of anger rages to the front of her mind and consumes all her thoughts. David continues to shout encouragement and advice, pretending to himself and them that nothing has fundamentally changed, like it's still a skirmish.

"Clearly we've corrected what was wrong with your father's instruction, but you can't let your emotions get the better of you like this, honey. Rumplestiltskin is wrong about Henry…" Emma's eyes narrow even further; Snow realizes less than a second later that she's only made matters worse, that _this_ is why her daughter is acting so aggressive and angry. She wants to deny any possibility that Henry could die, but they all know the brutal reality. And this fight is Emma's way of contradicting truth.

"Shut up, Mary Margaret!" Her attacks come even faster, the power behind her strikes literally vibrating painfully up Snow's arms.

"Show some respect, young lady! I am your mother! I know that you're hurting and angry, but that is no reason to take it out on me." Snow manages to cross their swords and grabs her daughter's left wrist, holding her in place.

Emma's eyes are hard, gray-green shards; the armor of almost thirty years of loneliness firmly in place. "Oh, I have plenty of reason to be angry with you. Now stop with the touchy-feely shit and let me go. Or are you planning on punishing me for my bad attitude?"

Just as furious now in return, Snow glares at her daughter and lowers her voice to barely above a growl. "You aren't too old for a spanking, you know. But I think there's a certain Captain who'd prefer to be the one giving it to you."

For a brief moment, Emma's mouth opens wide in shock, and she lets go of her mother's wrist and sword. Then her jaw locks and her lips thin, before she draws back and head-butts Snow.

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Killian stops pretending that he isn't watching Swan and her mother. He can sense before the queen does that something is off, that something is about to go wrong with this sparring match. He doesn't know how he knows it, but his gut clenches tight like it does when he senses a squall approaching. Carefully, he makes his way to where David is leaning against the railing. "Snow tells me that I wasn't being hard enough on our daughter, that I was going easy on her and giving her all the wrong training. But given that we haven't had much time to be parents to Emma, not to mention the fact that my wife is better at archery, I'm betting that the thought wasn't originally hers."

Fathers, especially royal ones, tend to have peculiar ideas about the type of man they allow to associate with their daughters, regardless of how old said daughter happens to be. But the lack of hostility, the calmness in David's voice bothers Killian more than anything. He doesn't know the other man quite well enough to know whether or not his anger is of the cold or burning varieties. Charming notes the silent preparedness in the pirate's body and acknowledges it with a smirk and a slight shake of his head. "Relax. I'm not the parent you need to be worried about. I know that my time to be able to protect Emma is long past; I didn't realize it then, but my biggest regret in sending her through the wardrobe is that I never had a chance to be the only man in her life, the only guy she could look to.

"I'm not blind, Hook. I've seen the way you watch each other, how you move around each other, defend each other. Before today, even. Do you know, it was a threat on your life that convinced her to take Gold to New York to find Neal?… I had never seen Emma cry—until she found out that there was no bean in that satchel down in the mines, when she believed that you had left her behind. And I've never seen her have more faith in a person, never seen her light up with hope like she did when you promised to help rescue Henry. She may try to hide it, and you must be a fool not to see it, but whenever she's with you, she glows."

Aside from training Swan, this is the most Killian's ever heard out of her father in one sitting, and every word out of the other man's mouth terrifies him. "I may not like you much, I may even envy you a little, but I have faith in you to keep her safe because Emma has faith in you. But you should know that if anything goes wrong between you, it's Snow you need to be afraid of. I might want to kill you, but she'll make it happen and in the most gruesome manner she can devise. And trust me, mate, my wife is _very_ creative."

David holds out his right hand, offering peace and understanding. More dread wells up in Killian's chest because his greatest fear has some how become that he will let Emma Swan down, that he will prove unequal to her in any way. Her father appears almost to read this thought as it flashes across his face. "That look… What you're thinking right now—_that_ is why I believe in the two of you. A brave man doesn't live entirely without fear; he acknowledges it and moves forward anyway. And one thing you aren't, Jones, is a coward." It's the implied insult that spurs Killian to meet David's gaze and grip his hand.

"Indeed, I am not. But I would be terribly remiss if I didn't point out that whatever retribution your wife may devise would pale in comparison to what Emma would have in store for me. Your lass is bloodthirsty, ruthless, and absolutely brilliant, mate."

Charming laughs before placing a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Yes, yes she is." The moment of camaraderie breaks when they realize that the sparring has become more intense, more serious while they had been speaking. Emma is speaking low at her mother through gritted teeth; both women are staring over crossed swords, only inches apart. Snow responds just as quietly, so neither man knows precisely what sets the spark to Emma's rage. Killian mutters softly—"bloody hell"—before Swan's head slams hard into her mother's.

"Emma!" David runs to his wife's side, sword still in hand, but not prepared for any resistance. His daughter easily knocks the blade out of his hand. Whatever would have happened next doesn't, but only because Killian tackles her to the ground and pins her there.

"Oi! Swan! Emma, stop fighting me, love!" Her eyes are actually glowing, something he's only ever seen with someone using magic. She tries to knee him, but he's been expecting her to go for a low shot. With his height and weight advantage, he keeps her from injuring him. He pitches his voice lower, letting her feel it rumble from his body into hers, an instinctive expression of dominance and control. "Look at me, lass. Breathe! Focus on me, love. You need to calm down."

"Let me up, Hook." She makes another attempt at bucking him off of her, but he's too solid and already gained the upper hand. He presses his weight down harder, desperately trying to bring her back to her senses.

"Not until you bloody settle down, lass. Now breathe, love." He risks a glance over at the two royals, both of whom look shocked; whether it's from seeing a new side of their daughter, or seeing that she's responding to his gentling, Killian isn't quite sure. If the situation weren't so tense, he might be apt to laugh and tease Emma. But having her be so angry and with magic lurking behind her eyes, he can find nothing humorous about the predicament they find themselves in.

Tears are forming in Snow's eyes. "I'm sorry, honey. I—I didn't mean it. I just got so angry all of a sudden."

Emma takes one look at her mother and starts struggling again. "Not helping, your majesty. Not over there, Swan. Eyes on me, love." Snow and Charming watch helplessly while Killian manages to calm their daughter down. None of them see the Dark One standing barely concealed in the shadows of the hold. His mouth sets in a grim, angry line before a flick of his hand releases the current of magic directed the Savior's way.

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"Now, do you bloody mind telling me what the hell all that was about? And don't even _think_ that the question is merely rhetorical, lass!" Killian locks the door to his cabin, drops the key down the front of his pants, and points her to the desk. His gaze follows hers and he smirks, knowing full well he's put the key in the place she least likely to go digging for it. Emma glares at him, crossing her arms and not breaking eye contact. But she knows that this is a power play that she can't win, so with a sigh she turns around and goes to sit in her chair. She's only sat there twice, but somehow they both already think of it as belonging to her in some way. After making absolutely certain that she was no longer seething with anger, Killian had grabbed a hold of her arm and roughly marched her down below deck.

She is doing her best to appear hurt and offended, but Emma knows that neither is the case. She owed him thanks for not only tearing her away from her parents, but also for bringing her back to her senses. She's believed that all of her issues with her parents, with being abandoned and alone for so long had begun to heal over, were steadily being forgiven and forgotten over the last few months of being a family. Apparently, those feelings were still there below the surface, and hearing that Henry might not be alive… Jones slams the bottle down on the desk, startling her out of her thoughts. "Gods-damnit, lass! Say something! If you were a member of my crew what you've done would have earned you at least a night in the brig!"

Emma looks up at him, tears starting to brim up in her eyes. _Seven hells, no! _"And don't even think that crying will get you out of an explanation!" She averts her gaze quickly and mumbles something that he _thinks_ he hears, but doubts that he's right.

"Come again, darling? Apparently, all my years are catching up, and I've gone deaf."

"I said, I'm sorry, Jones!" She all but sobs out his name, and hearing her actually say it almost brings him to his knees. But she doesn't need just sympathy from him; she needs his strength. He pours her a glass of rum and pulls his chair around the desk, sitting close without completely invading her space.

"Look at me, Swan." He places the cup in front of her, then grabs her chin and forces her to meet his eyes. He sees regret and humiliation in a gray-green ocean of pain. "What happened out there, lass? What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

Emma's hand latches onto her cup like it's a lifeline, and Killian lets her go so that she can down the alcohol. She grimaces at the blaze down her throat and in her belly, then stares at the cup as if longing for the misery she's feeling to go up in flames as well. "When Gold said that Henry… I didn't want to believe him, but I knew that he wasn't lying. I know that he's right, and it just made me so angry. Angry at Greg and Tamara for taking him. Angry with Neal for dying and leaving me to save our son. Angry at myself for not being fast enough, not good enough, not strong enough… And then my Mom was there, and all my anger at her just—I don't know, I guess it just consumed me, Hook. And I knew it was wrong, but I just couldn't stop it!"

Killian listens to her in silence, watching the bitterness and echoes of rage ebb and flow across her features. "And then she said that I shouldn't be mad at her, which just made me more angry. And then she said that I wasn't too old for a spanking, but that.." She stops and looks away, cheeks flushed in embarrassment; quickly, she wipes a hand across her face to hide the flush and clear off any stray tears. He gets an amusing mental picture of the scenario she just described, but his sense of self-preservation is too strong to allow him to actually smile at it.

"In other words, she was treating you like her child. When you're already angry, I can see how that would make matters even worse. And by all the gods, love, you're all but dead on your feet." He gets up and reopens the liquor cabinet and begins pulling down all of the bottles, gathering them under his left arm before depositing them on the desk.

"I don't think all the brandy in the world is going to be enough to help me feel better right now."

"Well that excellent to hear, lass, because until you can learn to appreciate it you are not allowed near a drop of my best." If she hears the unspoken meaning behind the words, she chooses to say nothing about it. Killian reaches into the very back of the cabinet and pulls on the wood paneling, revealing a small, secret compartment. Emma can hear a faint clinking of glass against glass and glass shifting on wood. He replaces the door of the hidey hole and when he draws his hand out, he's holding a vial of milky white liquid.

"One of the many things I've learned as a pirate is that all knowledge is worth having. You saw my handy work on the Crocodile? Well, poison isn't the only thing I've learned how to make. This comes from a plant here in Neverland, very similar to the poppy. But the effects are a bit more erratic, more difficult to predict, which is why I didn't offer you any in the first place. However, we find ourselves at a bit of an impasse—you need a full night's decent sleep, love, and we can't have you snapping at your Mum and Da or even worse, yours truly. Gods alone know what you'd have done if that had been the Queen or Runplestiltskin earlier. So, drink up, Swan."

He measures out one drop into her cup and fills the rest with rum. Emma eyes him warily, but stands up to face him. Never breaking his gaze, she reaches down, lifts her cup, and downs the contents quickly. She starts coughing the second she's swallowed the rum down. "What the hell, Jones?! I thought the rum was supposed to mask the taste or something—that's nasty! How long until-"

Her eyes roll back in her head, but Killian had already moved near her, prepared to catch her now limp body. It's the second time she's ended up passed out in his bedroom, and since she's unconscious, he allows the irony of the situation to make him laugh. "Oh, darling… We really _must_ stop meeting like this." He loops her left arm around his neck and lifts her as gently as possible, grateful he thought to palm the key to his cabin when she wasn't looking. Once he turns the lock, however, he is surprised when the Charmings are on the other side.

Snow looks very upset and concerned. David moves around her and holds out his arms for his daughter. "We just heard the last bit. Let me take her now, Captain. You should get some rest as well." Although he's growing attached to the way Emma feels right where she is, he carefully surrenders her over to her father. Once Charming has her, Killian can't resist tucking her curls behind her ear. He nods at the royal couple, turns around, and closes his door behind him.

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"Come on, Princess! No avoiding this lesson. You need to learn how to ride!"

"But I feel ridiculous in this outfit!"

"You're bloody well stalling because of how you're dressed, lass?! Come on then, let's have a look." Emma rounds the corner to the stables, arms crossed over her chest. Her riding skirt, pants, gloves, bodice, and boots are all made in the same soft, twilight silvery-gray leather. Her golden hair is partly braided into a coronet, the rest tumbles down her back and in the wind, flows behind her like a banner. He's imagined, fantasized about seeing her like this—dressed not as a pirate, but as the noblewoman she is in their land. "I'd say you look a vision, love, but you render all words superfluous." He bows over her hand before kissing the backs of her fingers.

She grimaces at the compliment. "I look ridiculous, and you know it. I'd better not catch you laughing about this behind my back, Killian Jones!"

"I would hardly consider myself a gentleman if I did, love. Now, if you please." He stretches his arm out, motioning her to precede him into the barn. A matched pair of blood bay Arabians waits near a mounting block by the doors. "This lovely lady will be your mount today. Her name is Briseis. Since this will be your first lesson, I'll allow you to use the block, though I will teach you later how to mount without such assistance. Left foot up in the stirrup there, good. Now put your weight on it and swing the right over her back."

Emma follows his instructions, nervously waiting while he checks that the girth is secure and both feet are properly placed. Even through the leather of her boots and pants, she can feel the warmth in his hands on her legs. "I may not know much about horses, but I believe that the stirrups are for my feet. And your hands are dangerously north of my knee at the moment, _old man_."

Killian's smile shines at its most sinfully evocative brightest. "Ah, but since I'm the expert here, we won't be questioning just how far I go to ensure that you are unequivocally seated for this very vigorous exercise. And I've yet to hear any complaints from anyone about my…advanced age and experience, love." She tightens her legs and valiantly tries to stop the shiver of pleasure that his words elicit from her body. The mare shifts restlessly and whinnies, picking up on her rider's movements and mood. Killian laughs and then sketches a bow to the horse.

"My apologies, lady Briseis. I was merely defending my honor and proving a point." Without any help, he jumps onto the back of the stallion and clicks his tongue. Both horses follow his command. The Enchanted Forest is decked out in the colors of autumn—rich ambers, bright oranges, burnt siennas, and more dangle precariously on their branches. A thin carpet of leaves covers the wilting grasses and a fragrance of light spices drifts up to them from the crushed, dying foliage. The next hour or so passes with various commands from Killian to Emma on how to communicate with her horse. They keep a slow steady pace, walking around an enclosed field that abuts a road. At the far west corner of the fence, they see a three-way crossroad.

Directly underneath the sign-post, a small group of travelers has gathered—mostly young children, a few people Emma's age, and some elderly folks all stand before a large, rough-hewn slab of granite. The stone itself looks like silver, with veins of black and white running through it. "Killian, what is that?"

He looks up from scratching underneath Achilles' bridle. "It's a shrine, love. Has no one told you then?" At the shake of her head, he continues. "There's a bowl of black obsidian glass; you place an offering of food or a silver coin to beg the blessing of the Three Ways. At nightfall, the priest takes the offerings and gives it to the hungry and needy. There's also a silver chalice, with an earth, a moon, and a sun on it, to represent the three worlds—land, sea, and sky. You pour a libation into that, to thank the Three Ways for bringing you safe to journey's ending."

Killian's voice all but casts a spell on her, making the simple religious devotions come alive with magic. While explaining all of this to her, three children at the edge of the crowd had begun staring at them. Something tugs at Emma's heart—a longing and a name—_Henry_. The children all come to stand by the fence, the youngest on tiptoe to peer over the top rail. She can make out dark blue eyes under his mop of messy blonde hair. The other two are girls, the shorter with midnight black curls and sharp green eyes, and the other with the silvery-white hair normally seen on very small children.

At a nod from the teenager, the little ones bow and curtsey to Emma and Killian; she then puts a hand on each of their shoulders and turns them back to the shrine. A sharper, painful twist stabs through her chest as she watches them walk away from her. "No, wait!"


	8. Progress

Emma wakes up for the first time in Neverland without feeling like she's been dragged behind a car on a dirt road for several miles. She remembers the dream and, while the aching memory of those children fading off into the distance still tugs at her heart and causes tears to spring up, it doesn't weaken her resolve to find and rescue Henry. She doesn't feel depressed, useless, or powerless—she's ready to do everything she can to save her son. And she soon realizes, at least in part, why that is: the ship is actually moving! The water has gone from making the occasional, dull slap against the hull to a full-on rushing roar. She stumbles both in her eagerness to get up on deck to see it for herself and because she's unused to the motion of a sea-faring vessel.

When she finally makes it up top, certain that she'll have quite a few bruises in the morning from tripping into doorknobs and walls, almost all that she can see is a thick blanket of fog. Even at just twenty feet away, Jones looks like a gray ghost through the mist—a spectral captain steering a phantom ship. David jumps down from the mainmast, runs up to the helm, and seems to yell something at Hook. This close to them, she should be able to hear whatever her father say, especially at the volume he seems to be using. Killian responds, also appearing to shout. Without warning, Regina crosses in front of her. Emma reaches her hand out and grasps the queen's arm. "What's going on?"

Regina shakes her head and points to her ear. It looks like she's yelling too, but Emma only hears a faint, staticky echo. "Some kind of magic. None of us have seen anything like it before, and David went up the crow's nest to see… Completely surrounded, but we won't let Hook take in the sails. Need to get moving and find Henry." The two women share a look of understanding. Emma nods her agreement and lets go of Regina, who moves toward the prow where Rumplestiltskin is clearly attempting a counter-spell.

Emma runs up the steps to the helm, nearly face-planting when she trips on the last stair. Killian keeps his hook on the wheel and reaches out quickly, catching her before any damage is done. "You all right, lass?" His voice sounds hollow and distant, but she knows that he's projecting as well as he can; she's certain he's had plenty of practice making himself heard over any and all elements of nature. She nods quickly, mouthing a thanks.

"Is that really a good idea?" She tilts her head toward the pair working magic ahead of them. Again, she just forms the words with her lips, hoping she doesn't have to resort to screeching any time soon. He cocks his head, as if listening for her voice, but smirks when he realizes what she's doing.

"Figure out the easy way, Swan. Make the rest of us look like bloody idiots and fools why don't you!" Strangely, she can hear his laugh over the sound of the waves and the white noise. "Doubt it's the smartest thing, love, but I've never seen the like. No clue what's causing this, but at least we're finally moving."

"If you can't see anything, and David says that he can't see above this fog bank, how are you navigating?" Jones' grin becomes slightly sheepish, but he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the magic compass, the one that brought Emma and Snow back home to Storybrooke. This time, she actually does yell. "You were in my room?! When? How?"

He winces—apparently, her voice carries over the fog a good deal better than anyone else's or her volume is much higher. "I _may_ have come across your window the night that Cora and I arrived in your world. And the window lock just _may_ have shown evidence of tampering, so I simply had to investigate and make sure that you were safe, princess." His expression remains positively amused as he informs her of this—a small, secret smile lighting up his features.

Emma crosses her arms and looks merely furious, until she remembers in exactly _which_ drawer she put the compass. "If you took ANY souvenirs—if I find even ONE item of clothing missing when we get back, you are a dead man, Killian!"

He winks at her and shrugs. "We'll see."

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An hour later there is still no end in sight to the magical fog. They have no way of determining how fast they are going, or if the mist is stationary or following them. Unable to find a solution, Rumplestiltskin insists on everyone going below deck to confer, hoping that they will not need to resort to continual shouting to understand one another. Hook ushers everyone in to his quarters, which is where all the paper and ink reside should the noise continue to prevent them from speaking. As soon as the door is shut behind David, all they can hear is the normal sound of the ocean against the ship. "Bloody hell!"

Everyone cringes back, the sound of Killian's voice far too loud after the near lack of hearing in the fog. He pitches his voice lower and quieter. "Apologies. You've never seen anything like this before, Crocodile? Your majesty?"

"As I believe I've already explained, _Hook_, this is something entirely novel to me. And thus far, all attempts at a magical solution have failed. We have two options: pull in our sails and wait for the fog to clear, or keep heading forward blindly and hope that our _captain_ doesn't run us aground somewhere." Every consonant is clipped and dripping with disdain; Rumplestiltskin stares directly at his enemy, daring him to say or do anything. Snow places a hand on Killian's arm as a precaution, but looking up at him, she sees that his face is not contorted with rage, like it normally would be.

_Interesting development…Emma's calming influence? _"Baiting one another doesn't accomplish anything. As much as I want to find Henry, I think it's safest if we pull in the sails. We can't keep running around blindly, hoping that this will go away. Regina, you said that there was definitely magic behind the fog's presence here, yes?"

The queen nods. "Correct. But if the mists are targeting us specifically, then that's all the more reason to keep moving. Every second that we delay is a second longer that Pa—that the Shadow has my son." She chokes a little bit on the last words and casts an apologetic look at Emma.

"Despite the fact that I _am_ Captain, which for all intents and purposes renders this vessel a floating dictatorship, I am willing to put it to a vote. That way, no one person can be blamed for the final decision; and therefore, no one will be doing any drawing and quartering later on." He pointedly looks at Rumplestiltskin, whose lined face manages to appear even more contemptuous than before.

"I believe it's quite obvious that her majesty and I are both for continuing forward. And Snow and our…fearless pirate are opposed. Which leaves two votes yet to be cast." The Dark One turns his gaze on Emma and David. "And in the interest of fairness and equality, I believe the princess' vote should carry the most weight; she is the Savior after all, and there should be some kind of tie-breaker."

Snow looks ready to argue with Gold, but visibly bites down on her lip to keep from saying anything. Killian and Regina both accept this with a nod, both seeming to believe that Emma's verdict will come down on their side. David looks down at his wife and squeezes her shoulders. "As much as I hate to disagree with you, I think it's more important to keep moving. The faster we reach land, the sooner we can get Henry to safety." He nods at his daughter, his eyes full of trust in her. Without a word, he conveys to her that she has his support, no matter what her decision.

Emma walks away from the group, unseeingly staring out the portholes along the back wall of the cabin. Surprisingly, it's Snow and Rumplestitlskin who begin bickering, sniping arguments back and forth at one another. She almost wishes for the silence up on deck so that she can hear herself think. The fog shifts and swirls, darker wisps over lighter ones—a roiling boil that mimics the voices behind her and the thoughts in her head. Patterns weave and dance across her vision, like clouds racing across the sky and forming new shapes every other heartbeat. All she can think of is Henry. Henry. Henry. Henry.

"_MOM!_" Her whole body stiffens at that one word, at the pain and despair and loneliness encapsulated in that single cry. She turns around and bolts for the door, running up on deck as fast as her legs can carry her with the sound of her name being shouted by more than one voice before being quickly lost on the wind.

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Killian ignores the yelling match currently going on between Snow White and the Dark One. He looks over at David with a touch of sympathy, but also a silent plea to calm his wife down. The other man shrugs, indicating the futility of trying to reason with her. Regina is taking the same stance as he is—they will abide by Emma's choice, no matter the outcome. Granted, the queen is entirely certain that the decision will be to move forward; she cannot conceive of Emma calling a halt to the search for Henry, but he is not convinced that he knows Swan well enough to be positive. She'll do anything for her son, true…except, perhaps, in the face of endangering so many other lives? He's the only one truly watching her, so only he notices the change. Her spine goes ramrod-straight, before her shoulders hunch over as if in pain. He hears her gasp out a name before she's running out the door. _Henry!_

"SWAN!" He's the first one to follow her, shocked at her speed when only hours earlier she was wobbling about the ship like a drunkard. Other voices calling Emma's name pursue him into the fog bank. "Rumplestiltskin, hold her! Hold all of them!" He feels his voice crack painfully in his throat, but if the message was received, then it was worth it. When he reaches the deck, Emma is mere feet away from the edge, surrounded in a red and blue glow; she's lunging forward, fighting against the magical shackles, screaming Henry's name. Before he can even form a prayer of thanks to the gods, Snow and Regina rush past him; they too run headlong for the railing before they are pulled to a halt by a similar swirl of the Dark One's spell.

"What the hell is it, Jones?!" David's voice comes in loud and clear, having screamed in the captain's ear.

"Not it. Them! Rusalki!" He points to the now visible water. Hundreds of cadaverous bodies are floating near the surface; some look entirely dead and lifeless, but others are moving and have wide burning yellow eyes trained on the three women. "They're the spirits of drowned women—women who lost a child to violent death and killed themselves from the sorrow or guilt. They seek companions to join them in their watery graves. See to your Snow! You have to get through to her and break their spell!"

He hopes he's managed to convey to Charming what needs to be done. Killian risks a glance at Rumplestiltskin, who looks pale and drained. "She's fighting me!" Both Regina and Emma are thrashing wildly, screaming "Henry," with every breath. Suddenly, the ship trembles and bucks as if it's been rammed. Unsure who or what is causing it, Jones runs up behind Regina, draws his cutlass, and knocks her on the head with the pommel. "Damn it, pirate! Not the queen—Emma!"

Rumplestiltskin is crumpled on the deck, as if he's been thrown off balance by the violent movement of the ship. His head whips back as if he's been struck, and he collapses entirely. A flash of yellow-green light catches Killian's eyes, but it's the splash that tells him Emma has managed to somehow break through the containment spell and jumped overboard.

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Snow struggles against David's arms and the magic that's holding her in place. She can hear her daughter screaming, the sound of damned and tortured souls. "_Mom! Save me! Please save me!_" Tears are streaming down her face—she has to get to her daughter! Nothing matters except finding and saving her daughter—the baby she brought into the world, then sent through a wardrobe to grow up all alone, unprotected. She hears Emma's first cries again, but the sound brings only pain, only reminders of heartache and loss. There is no joy in the infant wailing piercing her ears.

"EMMA! Let me go, David! I have to get Emma!"

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"Tie her up, mate! And tell the Dark One that fire is the only thing that can stop them!" He makes certain that David has understood before stripping off his coat and diving in after Swan. There are Rusalki all around her in the water, thick as fleas on a mutt. Carefully, methodically, Killian stabs each and every creature in the heart, desperately trying to locate Emma's distinctive golden locks. _Every god in every heaven; every god below on earth; every god upon the deep, please, don't let me lose her now!_

The screeches of the ones he's injured start getting louder, shattering an eardrum which produces a ringing silence and a steady stream of blood. And suddenly, several pairs of evil, sulfur-colored eyes turn to him. "Seven hells!" Claws start ripping into his chest and legs, spreading a bone-deep chill through his body. "I. Refuse. To die. Like. This." Every word is punctuated with a slash of his hook and his dagger. A sickly, yolky slime starts to spurt out of the damaged corpses, choking him with the cloyingly sweet stench of death. Still he lashes out, still swims, still searches for Emma.

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All around her, Emma sees eyes of yellow fire. _So bright!_ Arms fold her into a tight embrace, and several hands stroke through her hair, along her back. A gentle humming fills her head along with Henry's voice; no longer full of pain, but the happy, light, and free cadence she adores telling her how glad he is that she's saved him. She laughs, bubbles drifting upwards, floating past her face. Suddenly, she sees a bright light flash overhead; Henry's words of love and the music cease abruptly. Emma gasps and swallows a mouthful of water; her lungs remind her forcefully that she needs to be breathing air. A good thirty feet above her, she sees a knot of the naked female corpses—at the center of which are Jones' legs.

She pumps her own legs and arms, propelling herself back up to the surface. Emma pulls her dagger out as she feels a tug on her left foot. One of the creatures has latched on and is trying to pull her back down. But it underestimates Emma's strength, her will to survive and rescue her son. She reaches down and stabs her blade directly between the creature's eyes. A terrible screech fills Emma's head, but it lets go of her. Free at last, she swims up, lungs burning and vision darkening as she nears Killian. Twenty feet. Ten feet.

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He gasps for air at precisely the wrong moment, a fireball sucking up all the oxygen nearby. He's light headed from blood loss and exhaustion, but at least the Dark One has finally decided to join the fray. Finally free of the grasp of the enraged Rusalki, Killian takes a deep breath before plunging below the surface. Emma is nearby, but starting to slowly sink. He moves as fast as he can, slicing through the water with a speed he would otherwise find impressive. He rushes her to the surface, holding her head up. The Jolly Roger looks incredibly far away, but he closes the distance quickly. Before he knows it, he and Emma have been pulled up onto the deck. Unable to keep his legs under him, he crawls toward her still body.

"Hook…"

"Gods damnit, Swan! Don't do this!" He pinches her nose shut, seals his lips around hers, and breathes air into her chest. Before anyone can stop him, he slams his curled fist directly over her heart. Her whole upper body arcs up from the deck and a fountain of dirty, yellow water spews out of her mouth. Killian catches her before she falls back down, gathering her close. "There's a good lass. Breathe, Emma love."

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Snow sits on the bunk right next to her sleeping daughter, brushing the damp, bedraggled curls away from her face. So much hurt and regret goes into the soothing gesture that Emma is completely oblivious to…

_She easily heard the sobs echoing down the hallway, coming from Regina's cabin. Normally, she would knock, but sometimes grief opens doorways that would otherwise remain locked tight. The woman she has known as Step-mother and Queen and adversary is curled up in a tight ball, tears rolling down her face. In all the years they've known each other, Snow had never seen such genuine emotion from the other woman, a moment of entirely unguarded weakness against sorrow. Without a word, she sat down and pulled Regina into a consoling hug, pouring all of her empathy, compassion, and understanding into the embrace._

_ At first, Regina remained stiff, unsure of what the women who has for so long been her enemy hoped to gain by this gesture. But then she felt the truth behind the action—Snow was trying to make amends, if even in the smallest way, by offering the comfort only another mother who had lost a child could give. Her sobbing and crying increased, raging out of her control. For a woman who had spent her life in pursuit of power and domination, the loss of them left her utterly empty and broken. The reassuring circles at her back slowly calmed her._

_ "I—I still don't forgive you! What you did!"_

_ "Shh! I know. I know you don't. But that doesn't mean that I'll stop trying to earn your forgiveness."…_

Snow hopes that she still has time to earn Emma's. "Any change, milady?" She looks up and sees the Captain filling the doorway, arm wrapped gingerly around his chest. She sniffles and wipes away the stray tear.

"None. You should be in bed, resting. Your injury to your ribs, and now this?" She gestures to the bandages peeking out from beneath his fresh black shirt. As one of two completely unscathed, she had dressed his wounds while David had gone up to steer the ship. The instant the Dark One had banished the Rusalki with fire, he had collapsed and their cursed fog had rolled back to reveal a bright, starry night sky.

"Actually, the ribs were right as rain before this. Woke up for the first time this morning without a single ache. And your Charming isn't exactly the first person I'd trust with my ship. Not the last either, but certainly not the first."

Snow gets up from the bunk and plants her hands on her hips. From the change in Killian Jones's body language, she knows he recognizes the look she's giving him—a far more intimidating one than Emma's version. "You won't be any good to my daughter if you're dead on your feet. Now march, pirate!"

"If I weren't injured, I'm sure I could find a line in there about being-"

"I have no problems with torturing you right this second, Captain. Saving Emma's life only earns you so much credit with me." She pokes his abdomen, purposely striking the deepest gash he received in the fight.

He sucks in a breath and winces, yet still manages a smirk. "Of course, your majesty." Snow crosses her arms and glares at him until he enters his cabin. She looks over at her still sleeping daughter, a smirk of her own lighting up her face. _You are a lucky woman Emma. One day, both of you will realize that._


	9. Hangovers and Hang-Ups

Emma didn't think she could feel any worse than she did the other morning after downing that entire bottle of Jones' brandy. But after being attacked by bitchy undead mythological creatures, nearly drowning, and having a one-handed pirate perform bass-ackwards C.P.R. on her, she's reevaluated her position on the issue. But if there's one thing that Emma Swan has never allowed to stop her, it's pain. When she finally woke up, she could feel the ship moving, and a breeze whistled down through the crosshatches above her. Whether or not her mind or heart or body were prepared, she had to get up and face the day for her son's sake. Strangely, it is the single most uneventful day since their arrival—a constant ebb and flow of waiting for orders, climbing the rigging, setting the sails, keeping an eye out for land and creatures. Perpetual motion prevents Emma from feeling every single bruise and cut, except for maybe the blisters and rope burns on her hands.

But she feels better now, at the end of this watch, than she has at any other time here in Neverland. They aren't getting their asses kick by magically-powered storm, but they aren't sitting ducks either. There hasn't been a single crazy thing go wrong—no monsters attacking, no bickering or back-stabbing; for once, everyone is on their best behavior and working toward getting the ship to shore and to Henry. Then again, she and David and Jones all get along with each other fairly well. If Emma had had to face her mother after the things she said and did, or if Hook and Gold had the same watch together… She shudders at the thought. Snow definitely has an apology coming her way. But right now, after everything that her mother has been through and done for her, Emma just doesn't have the words or the courage.

She tells herself that she's hoping to find at least the second, and that this is the only reason why she finds herself knocking on the Captain's door. Thieves, it would seem, are just as adept at self-deception as pirates. Emma listens carefully for any sounds or voices that she'd rather not hear before solidly rapping her knuckles against the wood. What she's not expecting, however, is for Killian to answer without a shirt on. She can't even remember what she had been planning to say, let alone form a new thought. All she can do is stare at his chest, specifically at the several large, jagged scars clustered very close to his heart; it's as if someone with exceptionally poor hand-eye coordination attempted the carve the muscle out with a very dull cleaver. Without her brain giving it a conscious command, Emma's hand reaches out to feel them. "What the hell happened?!"

He hardly dares to breathe for fear she'll realize what she's doing and retreat from him again. Emma had kept her distance from him all day, barely speaking to him and only coming close enough for him to order her aloft. He wants nothing more than for her fingers and hands to keep tracing over his skin, like following lines on a map. But not answering her question and allowing her to continue touching him is not a wise course of action either; so, he decides the truth is easiest. "I've made many an enemy over the years, lass. Cora and Rumplestiltskin aren't the only ones to try and fail to claim my heart. That was always their mistake in the end." Jones steps back away from the doorway, away from her questing touch; he turns and walks further into his room, retrieving a clean shirt from his locker as he had been doing when he heard her knock.

Emma's mouth still hangs open in shock, but from what he's said or realizing what she's done, he isn't sure. However, she does manage to close the door and follow him. "Jesus, Killian! How many?"

He shrugs nonchalantly, suddenly uncomfortable with her concern and focus. "Can't say as I recall."

Emma plants her hands on the hilts of her weapons. He's noticed that she's started carrying them with her at all times, rather like she did with her pistol in Storybrooke. But the dagger and short sword resting against either hip somehow seem to look right on her in a way that the gun never managed. It's as if—odd as it may sound—she belongs in his world. He shakes his head at the strange, impossible thought. _In your dreams, pirate. She's a bloody princess! _"Liar. I'll bet you have a story for every one of those scars. And each one probably ends with you strolling off into the sunset drinking rum with a bimbo on each arm."

He looks over at her, confused by what sounds curiously like jealously in her voice. That's when he notices that her expression has softened slightly, with pity. He bristles at being on the receiving end of this particular emotion, because it means that she's truly seen the rest of him—in particular, the crisscrossed scars on his back and the contraption he uses to keep his hook in place. He knows she's probably seen the later before when he was unconscious in Storybrooke's infirmary, but he quickly slips his arms through the sleeves and shrugs the shirt up on his shoulders. He doesn't bother doing up the buttons though, preferring to distract her with his body in other ways. "I haven't the foggiest what a "bimbo" is, love, but any rum involved went to cleaning the wounds and killing the pain while Mi—while someone patched me up."

There's a certain intensity to the way she's looking at him, to the way she's watching him that sets his teeth on edge. He doesn't like appearing to any disadvantage with her, and he has always seen his scars as proof that someone managed to best him in some way. Emma gestures weakly toward his chest again, but this time at the bandages covering the wounds from the Rusalki attack. "David told me that you were hurt—pretty bad—when you pulled me out. That Mary Margaret took care… Do you need—do those need to be changed?"

"So, a few minor injuries is what it takes to get you to admit you want to run your hands all over my bare flesh, lass?" Emma actually blushes at his words, but rolls her eyes anyway. Not, she thinks, that he can see either since his back is turned to her and he's gathering their cups and rum.

"Leave it to you to turn an offer of help into something sexual." She sits and watches him as he fills both of their glasses. With a quick salute, he downs a good portion of his. "I am curious about something though… At least in the world where I grew up, pirates tend to have tons of tattoos. As far as I can see, you only have the one."

"That's quite the observation, Swan, but it's not a question. How do you know that I haven't any more?" He calmly, smoothly takes his chair and props his feet up on his desk. To someone who doesn't know him, it would appear to be a casual and relaxed pose. But Emma is all too familiar with the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the careful placement of his arms, even the way he's left his shirt open; because she's perfected similar gestures over the years when she's tried to hide the fact that she's dodging something. Distract, evade, deny—touchstones she's lived by.

And maybe it's the rum, or maybe it's the fact that she's always enjoyed solving puzzles and riddles; but Emma finds that she's relishing it—playing this particular game with Killian Jones. She quickly drinks her rum, slamming all of it like a shot. She laces her fingers together before placing her hands on the surface of the desk and leaning toward him. "Call it an educated guess. Most people get tattoos for one of a few reasons: one, just to say they've done it; two, drunken mistake; three, they like pain; or four, because each and everyone means something. You're too controlled and calculating for the first two; and if you were that turned on by pain, you'd have them everywhere."

She knows that she's right because he refuses to look up from his cup. "She was with me one day, and the next I had to bury her at sea. She lived a grand life, but there was no record of it, no proof she ever existed… Here in Neverland, things never grow old, never die, never fade… So, this was how I commemorated her life, through my actions and my remembrances."

"Neal never talked about her. At the time, I just thought he had a typical, sad childhood, but now… What was Milah like?"

Killian looks up at her, genuinely surprised that she would ask. There's no cruelty or maliciousness in Swan's eyes; just a sincere desire to understand the woman who was her sons' grandmother, the woman who loved a pirate. And so, he tells her. All the qualities that his Milah possessed—sass, spunk, a thirst for new experiences and adventure. He waxes on about the life they built together, and the family they _wanted_ to build together with Baelfire and children of their own and their crew. He finds himself smiling as he tells stories that he'd thought he'd forgotten.

Emma remains quiet throughout the most of his narration, only occasionally prodding him with murmurs of encouragement. After he finishes relating the time they managed to hold an entire city for ransom, he notices that she's staring thoughtfully into her cup—rather like he had been before she asked about Milah. "Something the matter, lass?"

Emma startles at his question; his voice had become melodic and hypnotic as he depicted vistas which she doubted she would ever see with her own eyes. But it had also allowed her to brood, to ponder. "No. Everything's fine."

He reaches out and takes her hand in his, only catching the hitch in her breathing because he's entirely focused on her. "I may not be able to _always_ tell the truth from a lie, but I know _you_, Emma. Now tell me—what's troubling you?"

She takes a deep breath to collect herself, because she knows that this conversation will probably not end well. "Okay. Here's the thing: I get being miserable and unhappy; I even get sneaking around behind her husband's back; and, let's face it, Pretty Boy, you're much easier to look at than he is. But why in the world would she leave her son behind? Especially with a man that she couldn't stand to live with anymore?"

Her voice is pitched low and soft, yet her words strike him like a blow. "I've told you, lass. We always talked about Baelfire, about us being a family, and going back to get him when he was old enough."

"But my point is that you never did. And what does that even mean, Killian? At what age are you considered 'old enough' to commit to a life of steady strings of grand larceny?"

"Oi! That hurts, love!" His smile falters quickly when he catches the implication in her words. He swallows past the tightness in his throat that rises with his memories. "I was ten when my father left me—sold me as cabin boy to a captain just so he could afford to keep moving, actually. Took me seven years to earn back my freedom; all so my dear old Da could run from his crimes."

Emma nods sympathetically and twists her hand so that their fingers are intertwined. They had forgotten, it seems, to ever pull away from each other. But then she pins him with a hard, knowing stare. "And how old was he when you found him in Neverland? Look, I'm not trying to judge you or Milah, but I _am_ suggesting that maybe you've never really seen her clearly. I gave up Henry because I believed that a juvenile delinquent wouldn't make the best provider and role model for him. She left Neal behind with a man who apparently made her miserable. Along you come—charming smile, witty banter, amazing stories… But I'll make you a deal, Jones: _I answer_ two questions that I have about your relationship, and if my guesses are right, I get the very best bottle of brandy you're hiding back there."

She points to the hidden compartment in the wall beside them, clearly remembering all too well that if he enjoys anything, it's a challenge. He grins mischievously, unaware or not recalling that being an open book works two way. "Second best, and I'll crack it open now."

"Done!" She pulls his hand closer to her body after shaking it. Her grip tightens slightly and her thumb presses into his wrist above the tattoo. "First, whenever there was a choice to be made or something needed to be taken care of, she always chose which ever option was the most reckless and dangerous. Her thirst for adventure almost always ended with a near-death experience for someone. Am I right?"

His hesitation tells her that she is correct, but so does the altered beat of his pulse. Confusion flashes across his face, and a bit of annoyance. "And second. Every time you two ever talked about having a family? About rescuing Neal? _You_ were the one who started the conversation. True?" She can almost viscerally feel it as he pulls back into his own mind, replaying thousands of memories from so long ago. She shifts her hand back, so that their fingers interlocked again.

"I know you loved her—that you still love her—because only love can drive a man to revenge, can force him to go to such terribly dark and lonely place. But maybe it wasn't you that she loved, so much as the fun that you represented and the freedom you gave her. I've done my share of ducking responsibility, so I recognize the story of someone who's running away from their problems."

His breathing becomes harsher, rougher, and his face has gone ashen. She knew that this would happen, that she would step over a line that she had no business crossing. But at the same time, she can't bring herself to regret it either. Something needed to give, so she smashed it with a sledgehammer. "You know nothing of love, Swan. And you know nothing of Milah."

He attempts to pull away, but she locks her grip tight on his; he either has to stay, or risk hurting her to go. He refuses to look at her, so she speaks softly. "You're right—I didn't know her. But I know that if I _loved_ someone, truly loved them, I would never want them to avenge me. You said before that love was rare in my life; it was. So I believe that it's precious. Nothing as amazing, as life-affirming as love should ever become something dead and decaying. Revenge has poisoned and consumed your life, Jones, and no one—especially not you—deserves to live their life like that."

Emma stands up, releasing his hand. She says nothing to him as she walks out of his cabin. He's been focused on how much pain and…betrayal her thoughts have woken that it takes him a while to process her last sentence. His head whips up toward the door, disbelief on his face, but she has long gone. _…no one, especially not you, deserves to live their life like that. _

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Snow is up in the crow's nest for some reason. With a sigh, Emma starts the climb up, ready to grovel. What she told Killian just moments ago is just as true for her as it is for him: she's let her anger and abandonment issues cloud her judgment for too long. She needs to fully forgive her parents, not just say the words, and let all of that negativity stop harming their relationship. She needs to set all of them free. "Mom?"

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_Killian stands at a crossroad of the king's highway that runs through the forest, and it is some moments before he realizes that trees like this don't grow in Neverland. And roads are fewer still. The signs pointing in every direction are blank, but the place looks somewhat familiar. He knows that he's been here before and a second ago he had felt like there was some place he had to be. "You need to see her."_

_ He spins around, instinctively beginning to draw his cutlass before the sight that greets him stops his movement. The high, tinkling voice belongs to a small girl, no more than five. "Who are you, lass? Why am I here? What is this place? What do you want?" He fills his questions with as much steel as he can muster, but the white-haired child only laughs. It's a little giggle that playfully, but painfully, tugs at his heart and reminds him of wind-chimes; he imagines that innocence sounds exactly like that, but her green-gray eyes dance with mischief and secrets. She waves at him._

_ "Come with me. You __**have**__ to see her." When he makes no move to follow, she rolls her eyes, sighs deeply, and stares at him. Walking straight to him without fear, she pushes the sword back into its scabbard and grabs his hand._

_ "Who are you? What are you?" The only answer he gets is another giggle and a gentle tug. She grips his hand more firmly, and together they continue travelling down the road. Though they are walking at a normal pace, he notices the trees are moving past them much faster than normal. "Where are we, lass? Please tell me."_

_ She sighs again, clearly exasperated with his questions. "I told you already: I'm taking you to see her."_

_ "Who, little one? Who's 'her'?" Instead of answering, the girl raises her free arm and points ahead of them. His heart stops. He sees an all too familiar village—a place that discovered his greatest happiness and his greatest agony. And then he sees her, much as she looked the first time that they met. __**Milah**__. He starts to drop the hand holding his and begins to stride forward, but the grip becomes unnaturally strong, devastatingly tight, and inescapable—magically strong. The power of it and the pain bring him to his knees. The little girl—pixie, fairy, sprite, whatever she is—moves in front of him, green eyes now glowing bright and directly piercing his. The fiery emerald gaze pins him to the spot; he instinctively knows that she sees far below the surface, down to his very soul. For the first time in far more years than he cares to recall, he is afraid._

"_She can't see you, Killian. She can't hear you, but you need to see her. You have to see her." Still holding his hand, she pulls him to his feet, and they follow after Milah. They trail close behind her to a cottage not far from the tavern where he first met her. It sits well away from any of the other buildings and despite the blooming garden out front, the entire shack looks ready to shiver and collapse when the first hard snows of winter will hit. She knocks, and another woman answers the door, beckoning her in. He's not sure how, but they manage to enter in after her._

"_The same again, Milah?"_

"_What else do I come to you for, Morgan?" Killian can only stare in wonder at her. His Milah—here, in the flesh. He isn't sure what kind of magic this is, but he'd gladly give his other hand for it to never stop working._

"_Well, forgive me, but I was hoping that our years of friendship might have had something to do with you being here. Not sure what it says when your best friend only comes 'round because she wants a bit of oblivion." The other woman huffs, and turns to a worktable that sits flush against the wall. He looks around for the first time, noticing that Milah's friend must be an herbalist—a hedge witch. Bunches of herbs and flowers hang from the rafters and all over, clearly drying. The other woman, Morgan, works something with her mortar and pestle. Milah frowns and her face tightens with disgust before rearranging itself into a beaming smile._

"_Morgan, dear, you are the only friend I have left. Of course I come here for your company as well."_

_Morgan pins Milah with a glare over her shoulder. "You would still have plenty of friends, if you hadn't pushed everyone else away. People can only take so many bitter words and drunken accusations. But no one blames you for what happened in the war—you weren't the one who deserted."_

"_No, but I'm tainted by association. No one says anything, but I know what they're thinking: there goes the wife of that coward. And their pity is worse than anything."_

"_They don't pity you anymore, what with that dagger tongue of yours! How many times have I told you, Milah? No one blames your husband either. Not every man is fit to be a soldier."_

"_He's not a man!" Milah is suddenly livid, practically screeching at her friend. Killian has seen Milah fight many battles by his side, but he has never seen the fury, the purely-distilled rage that she's exhibiting now. He looks down at the girl, who simply nods at him and looks back at the two women. "Men fight. Men win battles, and they come home covered in riches and glory. Or they die and leave their wives in peace. __That__ is the way of our world; __that__ is what should have happened to him!"_

_Morgan wipes her hands off with her apron and sighs. "Yes, yes. He should have died, and then you would have been a widow. And then you would have gotten all of his goods and would have been free to run his business. Free of a marriage that you never wanted in the first place, but had to make in order to get away from your mother. You know, fiddles that keep singing the same tune often find themselves broken."_

_Milah looks down at the floor, seemingly contrite. "I just want to forget for a while, Morgan. Can't you understand that?" Her voice is small and quavering, as if she is on the verge of tears. But she keeps glancing up, gauging her friend's reaction to her words and tone._

_Morgan sighs, but then her mouth thins into a hard line. She places her hands on her hips and leans back against the worktable. "Fine, Milah, I'll give you your oblivion, but this is the last time, you hear? Your body can't take much more of this potion. Your heart could give out because I've had to increase the amount of fox's glove to make it more effective. You've had so much over the last few years that it doesn't work as well anymore; that's why the effects haven't been lasting as long. You'll need to find another way to deal with your problems because I won't have my best friend dying on me." She hands Milah a black, corked vial. It's quickly hidden away in her corset, and Milah steps forward to give Morgan a quick peck on the cheek._

"_You're an angel."_

_Morgan grabs her arm to stop her. "I may have minded my business until now, but I __will__ say my piece, Milah. He may be a coward, and you may not love him, but he __is__ a good man. You have some of the best clothes in the village, because he makes and saves the best for you and your boy while he walks around in rags. He keeps you warm and well-fed, doesn't beat you, and you have enough money to pay for your oblivion and other luxuries besides. I can't make you change anything, but I think you are too hard on him and cruel to disrespect him so." _

_Milah jerks her arm free and glares at the other woman. She hisses and practically spits out her next words. "You have no right to judge me, witch!"_

"_I'm not judging you, Milah. I'm just saying that you should be grateful for what you have, and stop seeking for things you __cannot__ have. I'll never bring it up again, I swear."_

"_You'd better not." Milah spins on her heel and stalks out the door, slamming it behind her._

"_Do you see her?" The child's gaze is serious, intense._

"_Well, not now that she's left, little lass." He grins at her, never breaking eye contact. The little girl sighs and tugs on his hand again._

"_Come." They walk out of the cottage, and again Killian gets the feeling that time is moving around them differently. People rush past him at blinding speeds, while he and the child continue to walk slowly through the village. Then he finds that they are standing directly in front of the tavern where he and Milah met. He gasps for breath, anticipating seeing his love again. "You need to see her." Again those words from the changeling holding his hand. They walk into the bar, and his eyes are immediately drawn to his Milah._

_But his Milah is clearly in her cups, sitting on the lap of another man. He's speaking to her and whispering something in her ear while she—Killian springs forward to stop the downward, fumbling movements of her hands. But the pixie-girl holds firm and pulls him back. He's forced to watch as Milah, eyes glazed and empty-looking drunkenly weaves her way out of the tavern, clinging to this stranger closer than a vine. From where they stand, he and the tiny sprite can see every instant of what passes between the love of his life and the barfly up against the stables' wall. Still, he can say nothing, and another sigh escapes the child. Time speeds up again, and he sees the same scene played over and over and over, and the only consistent player is Milah. "Do you see her?" Soft, baby-pink lips are pressed into a hard, thin line—an expression of pained displeasure._

"_I see her, lass. But my question is why are you showing me this? What is the purpose of these conjurations, these lies?"_

_Her eyes begin to tear up, become yielding, compassionate, and sorrowful. She pulls on his arm gently—a request for him to meet her at her level. When he kneels down, the little one touches his cheek. He jerks his head back, startled by the feel of her fingers on his flesh. She looks even sadder at his reaction to her empathy. "I can see the past and the future, just as you can see the present. No lies, Killian Jones; only truth. I can show you light and truth. You need to see the truth, or you will lose yourself in darkness, forever." The large pools begin to trickle down from her eyes and her voice cracks with emotion. It suddenly becomes vital that he make this child's weeping stop._

"_Tears for me, lass? If only you knew how pointless they were. Hasn't anyone ever told you that pirates are full of troubles and woe?" He gently cups her cheek with his good hand, wiping away the droplets with his thumb. He feels a gentle humming along his fingertips and the palm of his hand, anywhere his skin comes in contact with hers. She takes his hand again and leads him toward the back of the tavern. Again, it seems that time flows rapidly forward, and suddenly he's seeing something that he's already seen before. Milah's eyes aren't glassy, but he senses a desperation to her drinking and dicing that he didn't notice when this scene first played out._

_He watches Rumplestiltskin beg his wife to come home, back to her responsibilities. He also notices that this is what breaks the dam, what causes her to start berating and belittling him in front of the younger Killian and his crew. But now, he knows that this is not the first time that the Crocodile and Milah have had this particular fight in front of her drinking companions, nor has he been blind to her numerous infidelities. He sees Milah's face when her little boy Bae calls for her and, having spent years with this woman, recognizes shame and embarrassment. She's just as ashamed of her five year-old son as she is her husband. "I had to show you. You had to see her." The little girl is crying again—for him—but then so is he._

_They walk outside once more, back to the cottage, whose roof has partially caved in on one end and has become even dirtier since he and the child last saw it. He can hear voices inside before they enter. "Think about what you're doing, Milah! Please! How can you leave behind your life, your child like this?"_

"_Because this is not the life I want to be living! I want freedom! I want stories to tell! I've been trying to convince Rumple to leave, to take us away from here, but he won't listen! He's such a damned coward that he won't even think of living anywhere but in that hole! I don't have a choice anymore! I can't stay here and continue to slowly die inside every single day!"_

_Morgan stares at her in shocked awe; when she speaks again, it's in a hushed whisper. "But what about your son? What about Baelfire?"_

_Milah shrugs her shoulder, looking well and truly indifferent. "As far as I'm concerned, he's not my son. His father is a coward, and he'll end up a coward himself someday. Just you wait and see." Killian closes his eyes, wishing that he could shut his ears to this just as easily as he does his sight. All the times that they had talked about her son, all the times that they had talked about being a family together—was all of that a lie?_

"_Yes." The pixie-child squeezes his hand. "Yes it was. Now can you see her?" Killian shakes his head, tears falling faster. He watches as the hedge witch hands Milah a vial again, this one filled with a yellow liquid._

"_The effects are permanent, so make sure that this is really what you want." Her friend might as well have not spoken, because Milah immediately unstoppers it and drinks the potion down. Morgan looks away, clearly horrified. "You must truly love him then, to give up so much for him… I can't imagine giving up all hope for another babe."_

"_That's because you've never had to deal with one. And he's pretty enough to look at, to be sure, but he has power, which is more. He can give me freedom and adventure, and other men respect him. If I can bind him to me, then I will be respected as well. Maybe someday it'll be something more between us, but for now, I'll take a man willing to fight for me. Rumple certainly won't." Milah scoffs as she says her husband's name, and Killian's heart is splintering over every word._

"_What if your plan doesn't work? No offense meant, Milah, but what if you can't hold on to him?"_

"_Then I'll manage. At any rate, better keeping company with pirates than with a coward. More fun and more profitable." He watches her leave, knowing that she's going to meet him, and that they will sail the world together and fall in love. But the child tugs on his hand again, breaking his reverie; she nods over at the woman Morgan, who is muttering to herself about warning Rumplestiltskin. Is it a betrayal of Milah's trust? How can she not do something to stop her friend? What about that poor boy? Finally, resolve fills her features, and she grabs a cloak. They follow her through the town and to a small, but well-kept cottage. She knocks on the door, and out limps the Crocodile. She tells him that Milah has been kidnapped, taken against her will, and that he has to save her. Killian watches the fear bleed into the other man's eyes and suddenly realizes the amount of courage it took for him to go looking for his wife at all._

_Curiosity urges him to look inside, but what he sees is almost too much. The Crocodile clearly had just been weaving, because young Baelfire sits on a low bench by his father's loom. And on the loom is a shawl that Killian recognizes all too well. Not even her tales of maternal labor and care for her son were true. If the little enchantress would allow it, he'd gladly lie down and weep for his own foolish heart. But instead, they stay near Morgan when Rumplestiltskin gathers his staff and leaves. They follow her as she takes a different route, a longer path to the docks. The child stops him on the quay, so that they are standing next to Morgan when the fateful confrontation takes place between Killian and the crippled man. "Thank you, Morgan. I couldn't have done it without you." Three heads whip around to the seemingly empty stall behind them, watching Milah step out from the shadows._

"_How did you—"_

"_You mean how did I know that you would tell my husband? Because you've always done the right and proper thing. You knew you couldn't talk me out of it, so I knew you'd tell Rumple and get him to come after me. Just like I knew he would never, ever fight for me. And I know you love him, after your own fashion, and you can't stand to see that pathetic coward unhappy." Milah stares at the ship with pride, smug grin in place as her husband shuffles down the gangplank and the other Killian returns below the deck of his ship. "You know, for freeing me alone, I really think I could love that man. Goodbye, Morgan." Milah walks toward the ship, calling out to the sailors who whistle at her arrival and give her a squeeze as she passes by._

"_Now do you see her, Killian?" Green-gray eyes are no longer teary, but fierce and determined. She is glaring at Milah, staring daggers into the woman's back. Her hand in his has grown hot, and a potent fury radiates off the small body next to him. She looks up at him, angry. "Do you see?" A startled gasp escapes him—he __**knows**__ those eyes._

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The sheets around him are soaked in sweat and tangled below his waist when he starts awake. He tries to rub the sleep and exhaustion from his eyes, but can't shake either of them. He feels just as tired as if… Well, as if he'd been walking all night and time-travelling with a spritely, magical little girl. A little girl with eyes _exactly_ like Emma Swan's.


	10. Wishful Dreaming

**A/N: Welcome to the next installment of my little tale, dearies! I hope you are all enjoying the voyage thus far. Just a couple quick matters of housekeeping. Certain portions of this chapter will seem very familiar to those of you who have read a certain one-spot. Please, do not skip it because you think you know what happens! Much planned editing has occurred. (:**

**In regards to several queries about the child/children who appear in Emma and Killian's dreams… Some of you have latched on to ONE of the possible explanations; I will (cheekily, maliciously) provide you with another. Maybe yet another will appear later on. Remember that the future is a puzzle, dearies. Happy reading! (:**

Killian stands at the helm, eyes fixed on the blue-black horizon ahead of him and thoughts scattered to the four winds. He swears that the little girl in his dreams _really_ _was_ Swan. But all his years haven't prepared him for anything like this; he doesn't even know if such a thing is possible. He knows that Emma has magic, that she can _use_ magic. But does that mean that she can really see the past and future? There are only three people on this ship who can answer any of these questions; two of them have done their best to kill him rather recently, and the third is at the heart of his problem. So, he supposes that he'll either have to wait and see how things play out, or find a way to confront Swan. Neither course appeals to him, primarily because one requires an uncomfortable amount of passiveness and the other carries many risks with it. So, even though his heart wants him to be closer to Emma, his sense of self-preservation urges him to draw back, as far away from her as he possibly can.

After the talk they had last night, she's hardly surprised when he'll barely speak with her during the two watches they share. Not only has she given him a lot to think about, but certainly some of it was incredibly painful to hear. But after her own personal revelations, she can hardly fault him for wanting a little space, a little distance from her.

_Rumplestiltskin and Regina were discussing something magic-related near the helm. Despite his loathing for the Captain, he seemed to enjoy the heady sensation of commanding the Jolly Roger. There was an unquantifiable, noticeable lightness to him whenever he's steering the ship, when he's the one in control. But untangling Gold's issues was not her primary focus in being up after her watch had ended. Emma was still several feet below the nest when she called out softly so as not to startle Snow. "Mom?" The sound of her voice carried softly, but her mother jumped anyway._

"_Emma. Honey, what are you doing up here? You need to be resting. Captain Jones said that we could reach the island itself sometime today; you should be sleeping—in case we can start our search for Henry."_

_She finally reaches the top, and though it's not a comfortable fit, she leans back against the railing of the crow's nest, facing her mother. Anger and bitterness rear their heads again, willing her to lash out, to hurt this woman just as Emma herself has been hurt. But she denies the impulse, giving in to her better angels. "Mom… I'm not good at this; I'm not good with words or the emotions that go with them, but I'm sorry. I know that I have to let all of this rage go—it's not fair to you or Dad to keep blaming you for sending me through the wardrobe. When I gave Henry up for adoption, it was because I thought that it was best for him—and to be honest, best for me—if he had a real family to grow up with. I didn't think that I could give him his greatest shot at a good life. And you and Dad did the same thing for me._

"_You sacrificed more than 28 years with the love of your life, just so I could have the chance to live free of the curse. And, yes, you also did it because you had faith that I would come back and save you. I'm so sorry for the things that I said and did. It felt like I couldn't control it, but the truth is that saying those nasty, spiteful things felt good. A part of me still wants to punish you for the years that I spent alone, and I can't promise you that I will never mess up again. But I want you to know that I'm doing my best here, because I don't want resentment and regret to poison our relationship—as friends or as mother and daughter."_

_The other woman listened to her daughter patiently, but eventually, tears started to stream down her cheeks. "I'm sorry too, Emma. I was angry too because I feel all of a sudden like you can't talk to me, can't confide in me anymore. When we were cursed, you became my best friend, and it hurt that I wasn't the first person you would come to, you know, to talk things through. And so, I attacked you and the other person you have been able to relate with. I don't even pretend to understand what is—okay, lie. I know __**exactly**__ what is going on between you and the Captain. But when it comes down to it, I just want you to be safe and happy. And if Killian gives you both of those things…"_

"_Mom, please! Jones and I aren't-"_

"_Don't you try to deny it, Miss Emma Ruth! I've seen the way he looks at you, but more importantly, I've seen the way that you look at him. There's an attraction, a connection that you can't deny. So, wherever you heart leads you, just know that you are never alone. Your father and I love you so very much—we will never __not__ support you and the life you choose. And know that even when I couldn't remember you, I loved you, my precious daughter." Snow places a hand on either side of Emma's face and kisses her on the forehead._

"_My middle name is Ruth?"_

"_Yes. For your father's mother. My mother's name was Eva, but I wanted you to have something all your own." Snow's eyes filled with more tears, remembering the strong women who were lost to them long before Emma was even a secret hope in her eyes. But she remains determined to not dwell on sorrows and smiles at her little princess. "Now, let me do the motherly thing, and tell you to get back down below deck, young lady. Your second watch of the day will come along before you know it…."_

So she gives Killian space, following his orders perfectly and without complaint. When he curses her ineptitude as a sailor, she quietly goes back up into the rigging to correct her "mistakes." At one point though, she does have to physically prevent David from throttling the Captain. In between managing the sails, Emma spars with her father; she no longer minds it when she ends up "dead," especially since the number of "fatal" instances are dwindling. She'll never be a student of the _art_ of swordsmanship like he is, but she's better prepared now to defend herself and her family. She thinks again about the prospect of returning to her real home, to the Enchanted Forest. Now, the idea isn't quite so terrifying, since she has a more complete view of what life there would be like. Learning sailing and swordplay has given her a boost of confidence. _Maybe I can convince Mom to teach me and Henry archery when we get back._

When their watch is over, Emma decides that her "time out" with the pirate should be done by now. Their nightly ritual of drinking and needling one another is one of the only things keeping her sane. She's never stayed in one place long enough to even make acquaintances, but living in Storybrooke and connecting with her vast, extended family has made her realize the value of companionship. And having been in his shoes not too long ago, she knows that Killian Jones needs a friend. She knocks, but at first he doesn't answer. "Come on, Jones! You can't stay mad at me forever! The social circle on this _boat_ is kind of limited."

She knows not to call his precious Roger a "boat," but she can't resist the jab when he's sulking like a kid. She can hear him moving, but by the sound of it he's still probably somewhere near his desk. "You know that I can pick this lock in a few seconds, right? And after I do, I'm going to come in there, knock you out with one right hook,—pun intended—and then get that bottle of brandy you still owe me from last night. Or I could take off my shirt, if that would-"

The door to his cabin slams against the wall. "Do you bloody mind, Swan?!"

Emma strolls in like she owns the place, and shuts the door behind her. Once inside, her confident demeanor wavers a bit. "I figured insulting your ship would get you riled enough to talk to me. My mistake."

Killian crosses his arms over his chest. "Your mistake, princess, was exasperating the Captain of this ship in the first place. Besides… removing that blouse right now wouldn't be nearly as titillating for me, as it would be were you wearing some of those scandalously diaphanous undergarments you favor in Storybrooke." His face transforms from irate to mildly amused as he says this, but his smirk returns in full force as Emma's jaw drops.

"You. Are. Dead!"

He snorts and turns his back on her, heading toward his liquor cabinet. "I believe the precise threat you issued was only rendered valid should I have collected a commemorative item from that particularly fascinating drawer. And it's difficult to remain furious with a woman who will offer to remove clothing just for the chance to speak with me." He unlocks the secret compartment, removing, as promised, his second best brandy. He turns to find Emma seated in _his_ chair, a self-satisfied grin on her face.

"You touched my underwear, so I get the comfy chair for a change. But in all seriousness, Killian, do you forgive me?" He doesn't say anything at first, just pours the brandy into the cups and hands hers over. He sits down, staring off into the distance as if debating his answer. In truth, he's enjoying watching her squirm over this just a little too much. "Because, in my defense, you did ask me what I was thinking. And… Well, as your friend, I felt that I had to say what was on my mind."

"Is that what we are, lass? Friends?"

Emma looks at him curiously. "I guess so. I never really had any friends before Storybrooke, so caring about other people is kind of a new experience for me."

He can feel the loneliness that radiates off of her as she drinks down some of the brandy, thankfully savoring it rather than pouring it straight to her belly. "I was _livid_ with you last night, Swan. But then, the truth can be a harsh, painful thing to hear. After you left, I just thought and thought about Milah. And I realized that I couldn't see her face, lass. I have a sketch of her, done not long after we first met, that's managed to survive well enough to be re-drawn over the years. And I went to go find it, thinking to look at her…And that's when I realized it. I have spent se—several hundred years plotting revenge for a woman whose face I can no longer see when I close my eyes."

She lets him keep talking, because she's doing her best to hide her emotions. She wants to laugh harshly at the bitter irony of his situation—not mockingly, but in sympathy. She wants to cry for all the years lost to darkness and despair, for the missed opportunities for love and happiness. He chose revenge; she chose emotional apathy; both of them wasted a good part of their lives. But Emma is still afraid. For all that Killian has seen so much of her, for all that she's chosen to reveal to him, she still fears that he won't like what he sees. So she says nothing, and they continue drinking the brandy. She's much too sober for her own liking when she gets up to leave.

But Killian seems slightly more in his cups when he grabs her wrist. "Can I ask you something, lass? Do you—did you dream anything last night? Do you remember any of your dreams?"

It's an odd question, but Emma answers honestly. "Actually, I usually don't remember anything. But last night, I dreamed that I was back home—our real home—and my Mom was teaching me archery. Wishful dreaming, I guess."

"Aye… Pleasant sleep, Swan."

She quickly and quietly slips in to the cabin so as not to disturb her father. David appears to be a heavy sleeper, but she'd rather not wake him if at all possible. Real rest is in short supply here in Neverland. She lays back and stares at the ceiling above her bunk. _Maybe it's just part of this place. Maybe Killian's having weird dreams too._

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She stands with her father, mother, Henry, and Regina on a slightly raised dais, five thrones sit behind them under an indigo velvet canopy. The ballroom in front of them is filled with friends from Storybrooke and honored guests from the Enchanted Forest, so the atmosphere practically glows with goodwill and joy. Many high arches open directly out onto the moonlit terrace, letting the cool night air spill in and helping the thousands of candles make the room bright. A brilliant rainbow of colors shifts before their eyes in the formal outfits and gaudy fabrics everyone is wearing. Laughter spills out spontaneously, as does the wine, and smiles light everyone's faces. Though properly commencing at midnight, there is nothing dark or sorrowful about this occasion. A fanfare of trumpets and the loud pronouncement of a majordomo call everyone's attention to the royal family gathered before them.

"On behalf of myself and my entire family: my lovely wife, Queen Snow; our beautiful daughter, Princess Emma; our dear ally and friend, Queen Regina; and joint heir to two kingdoms, Prince Henry, I would like to thank you all for attending tonight." King David smiles lovingly at every member of their family, before beaming benevolently on the crowd. "Please, enjoy yourselves, as together we celebrate our return to our land and the new beginning to our respective reigns." The royal couple descends the small steps, leading the way to the dance floor to officially begin the ball. As if he has been trained for the position all his life, Henry bows to Regina and offers her his arm as well. Despite the difference in height, he leads his mother impeccably in the same waltz as Snow and David.

With all eyes firmly fixed on her parents and on Regina and her son, Emma finally breathes a sigh of relief; she still feels uncomfortable in the spotlight. With the help of a footman, she carefully and gracefully manages to navigate the carpeted steps. She continues to watch the king and queen as they dance and marvels at them, as she always does. Curses, comas, and crimes—dangers and disapproving parents—nothing has ever truly come between them; their love has always triumphed. A familiar ache settles near Emma's heart—part pride, part joy, and part envy. No one could constantly be around that much devotion and not desire such passion, such happiness for themselves. And despite all of their bickering over the last two years and more, Emma can't help but smile at seeing Regina with the son that they both love. Evil no longer, the Queen clearly adores the boy that she raised; Emma may be his mother biologically, and her love is no less intense or important, but she was not there while he was growing up, did not witness the day-to-day joys and triumphs, sorrows and defeats. The thought fills her with both sadness and happiness.

A familiar voice breaks through her thoughts, disrupts her relatively simplistic enjoyment of the ball. "Is the princess not dancing this evening?" Her whole body stiffens before she turns toward him. He sketches a courtly bow and looks almost nothing like the pirate she knows. Almost. For starters, the hook is gone—left hand exactly where it should be. His pants are the same black leather, but his boots are polished and made for dancing, not sailing. The formal jacket is jet black silk, embroidered with a green-gray leaf design, and the cuffs and collar of his linen shirt are crisp and white. The earring, the swagger, and the rings on his right hand are all the same, and so is the flash of smoldering heat in his eyes as he stares at her. He moves toward her with leonine grace, yet the fabrics he's wearing rustle ever so slightly as to prevent a truly stealthy approach.

"What are you _doing_ here? Am I-?"

"Dreaming? Aye, lass. If this finery and hand weren't a dead giveaway, then that dress clearly settles the matter. I must say though, it suits you far better than even my wildest imaginings could have predicted, love. I've very few issues with the lack of concealment provided by clothes from that other world, but this… The merest sight of your beauty set-off like this should be an offense punishable by death, princess. Your father clearly does not believe in keeping his greatest treasures hidden. He really should be wary of any thieves lurking about." He takes her hand and performs another low bow before raising her knuckles to his lips. Now that he mentions it, she can't help but look down at her ball gown. The hand he isn't holding slides along the silky fabric of the bodice and skirt, fingers trace the silver and black embroidery threads and their whorled patterns. Strangely, her dress is a vibrant ocean blue; they've somehow managed to wear the color of each other's eyes.

"How is this…? Why are you…?"

"Does it really matter—how or why? This is your dream, love, so only you can answer those questions. But since I am here…" He bows low again before grasping her right hand in his left and drawing her close. "May I have this dance, princess?"

His natural scent of cedar and cloves tickles her nose, and the air freezes in her lungs and throat at his nearness. And while she's panicking on the inside, she doesn't put up any resistance as he leads her out onto the dance floor. Finally, she manages a breath and a question. "Why do you keep calling me that? Princess, I mean."

"Because it's what you are, love. It's _who_ you are." His eyes never leave her, like she is the most fascinating person in the world. "It's in your veins, like the sea and adventure are in mine." His gaze, already weighty and hot becomes so intense that she has to look away—or risk becoming ensnared in it. She looks out at the twirling dancers and spinning room around her, seeing that her parents are now seated on their thrones and are looking directly at her and her partner. They are holding hands, an inner light beaming from their eyes as they watch Emma dancing. With a pirate.

"Stop thinking so much about this, love. Can you not, even in your dreams, admit that you are precisely where you want to be? That the feel of my arms around you causes your heart to beat faster; that you want me, lass."

"You know, I don't know which of your nicknames is more annoying to me right now."

"Then what endearments am I allowed, sweet Emma? My heart? My darling? My goddess? My reason for existing?" She opens her mouth with a sarcastic quip ready on her tongue, but she suddenly realizes that it's just the two of them dancing. The ballroom and its crowd have disappeared entirely, and they are all alone together in a spacious bedroom. Moonlight still shines though open doors on a balcony, revealing a silvery-blue gleam to his black hair. Unexpectedly, there's no space between their bodies, and she is achingly aware of the flash of heat beginning to take over her.

"My own. My life. Mine. My Emma. Dearest, Emma love." Her head is still spinning, even though he has stopped twirling her around. She can only see him, can only look directly into his hypnotic eyes. She has never felt more alive than she does now, or more terrified. "Say my name, lass."

She has to swallow before she can even whisper. "Hook."

He shakes his head before cupping her chin with his right hand and brushing back her hair with his left. "My real name, princess. I want to hear you say it, want to see it form on your lips—watch your tongue caress every syllable. I want to see it now before you're screaming it in encouragement and pleasure." His gaze is fixed on her mouth, but she can't look away from his; especially not when that talented, flattering tongue flicks out. She takes a deep, panicked breath, and immediately curses whoever designed corsets. She licks her lips, willing herself _not_ to give in to what she's feeling.

"Killian, I—." He brings his left hand up to her face, both palms now cupping her cheeks, thumb gently caressing her bottom lip.

"Again, lass." It's a demand, an order, but somehow he makes it sound like a benediction.

"Killian."

Instead of looking smug, his smile brightens with that genuine glow which spreads all the way into his eyes. "Now tell me that you want me to stop." She was wrong before when she thought that they were as close as they could get, because the arm that suddenly around her waist crushes their bodies tighter together. She gasps, and it is then that he closes all distance and kisses her—a soft, chaste brush of his lips against hers. He pulls back an inch to read her eyes, and it's simply much too far for her. With a whimper of desire, her mouth returns to his, full of a need that she's no longer strong enough to fight. She snakes her right hand around his neck, fingers diving into his hair, and with her left she clutches his jacket in a fist.

He needs no more encouragement to make their kiss deeper, more intense. His tongue teases gently, licking across hers like a sweet treat on a hot day. He tastes like brandy—sugary fire. Moans fill the room as the kiss flames white-hot—burning and intense. Part of her brain tells her that she's trapped in her clothes, and her skin feels uncomfortably tight as his hands mold themselves to her body. He cups one of her breasts and everything except sensation flies from her mind. She clings to him, unwilling to let go, even though she knows that they can be closer still. She's barely aware of her dress hitting the floor or of the tugging at the laces of her corset.

She growls in irritation when he whips his shirt off over his head, pulling away from her. She pushes his back against the stone wall roughly before their lips and tongues start dueling again. Suddenly, the cool stone is against her back and she's caged in place by his body. He breaks the kiss and grins, a self-satisfied smirk, before grabbing her around the waist and throwing her over his shoulder. Emma feels so light-headed that she actually giggles, then stills when she realizes that she has a fantastic leather-clad view. Her hands slide down his back, ready to explore, but he slaps her ass before they can travel as low as she wishes.

Another giggle and a breathy laugh escapes her when he tosses her on the bed. She crawls backward, never breaking eye contact, as he removes the last of his clothes and then prowls along the bed, stalking her. His eyes and body follow every movement, making her feel both hunted and protected, pursued and cherished. She breathlessly watches the play of his muscles, gapes at the contained power behind his movements as he draws closer. Naked, the man is more jungle cat than pirate—but definitively a predator. And though that makes her prey, she does not fear him; she viscerally knows that with him, she is completely safe.

And then she can't think anymore because the length of his body has hers pinned to the bed, and his hands have her wrists trapped above her head. Shifting so that he holds both wrists with one hand, his calloused fingertips trace patterns on her arms causing aching shivers to travel down her spine and trailing heat behind them. She cranes her neck to kiss him again, but he pulls back, further out of her reach. It becomes a game, with her moaning in frustration as he darts in for swift licks and nibbles. But then he stops, and his eyes become darker, serious.

"You, Emma love, are the most beautiful, challenging, infuriating, desirable woman in all the worlds. And this may all be a dream, but by the gods, I can't stay away from you any longer. I can't deny your pull any more than the tides may disobey the moon." He kisses every inch of her face reverently, gently before returning to her lips. The once cool, silken sheets beneath them begin to exude the heat from their bodies. She whimpers and bites his bottom lip eagerly as his hand slowly pulls aside the fabric of her chemise and caresses a path up the inside of her thigh. When his thumb finally brushes against the tiny bundle of nerves at the apex of her legs, she cannot stop herself or her body's reaction.

"Killian! Please! I need you!"

Emma jolts awake and sits up quickly, solidly cracking her head on the low beam. "Son of a—!" She drops back down and puts a hand to her forehead, cursing and muttering under her breath. It's then that she notices the clanging of a bell over-head. Land has been sighted! They are finally going to be able to begin searching for Henry! She hops into her boots and barely gets her vest on before running out the door. Up on deck, Rumplestiltskin is looking thoroughly pleased with himself as he pulls on the chain for the alarm. Snow and Regina are both aloft in the rigging and crow's nest respectively, pointing off into the distance.

Killian strides up on deck, looking ready to kill. He pulls out his spyglass and peers forward. His face reflects a myriad of emotions: satisfaction, disgust, frustration. "Well done, Crocodile. I must admit that while I would rather have been skinned alive and fed to sharks, you've done an admirable job of commanding my vessel whilst I was resting."

"Oh, don't worry, _Hook_. I'm sure you can still manage to get yourself punished for some offense before our rescue mission is completed."

Emma looks back and forth between the two men; clearly, there's some masculine thing going on that she wouldn't understand. She's less than diplomatic or tolerant when she glares at both of them and speaks her mind. "Look, it was a team effort. Stop being such divas, both of you! We made it! We can finally start searching for Henry!"

Her hands are planted once more on the hilts of the weapons on her hips. Killian smiles to himself, because she looked so adorably vulnerable without them in his dream. He's still seeing Emma both in—and out of—her ballgown, so her normal threatening stance is far less intimidating. "Well, I can see that _you_ woke up in your typically radiant mood. Pleasant dreams last night, Swan?"


	11. Surprises

David, Regina, and Snow talk incessantly and excitedly, already making plans for searching the island. The Dark One stands away from everyone else, staring at the distant shore. To Emma, it just looks like a dark gray blob on top of a lighter gray blob on top of the blue of the ocean. The color reminds her of how Killian's eyes change with emotion, getting darker when he becomes angry or-. _Dream, Swan! It was only a dream, and you're just remembering when he was pissed off at you at the top of the beanstalk. And down in the dungeon_. She looks over at Jones, who is at the helm and looking less murderous now that Rumplestitlskin isn't anywhere near him. But he also appears withdrawn and thoughtful, as if something important is on his mind.

He motions her over, and she makes her way quickly to his side. "Take the helm, would you, love? If we're to be coordinating our offensive strategy, a map of the bloody place would be the best place to start." She watches him go below deck, but something about the set of his shoulders puts her on alert. She interrupts the three monarchs, asking her father to steer the ship for awhile. Clearly, David got a taste for sailing after the captain was injured by the Rusalki.

Emma doesn't bother knocking when she reaches the cool shadows of Killian's room. She takes it for granted that her presence will be welcome. He stares at the surface of his desk, but doesn't really see the various parchments and tools. "Let me take a wild guess: the stories I've heard are all wrong and the situation is even more dangerous than dealing with a psychotic, vengeful ex-god?"

"Something like that, lass. Neverland is… different. Not strange like Wonderland, but no two people ever really see the same thing whilst on the island itself. Now that I know it was created to be a mystical prison, so much that happened makes more sense than it did before. Deities love to fit their punishments to the crime, Emma; Neverland tests you. It finds a way to expose your darkest fears and taunt you with them. Over all my years here, I lost many a good man—my entire bloody crew except for Smee, in fact." He turns his head away from her, looking out the windows at the sea.

"What happened to all of them?"

"They went mad, one by one. Unable to leave and get away from their nightmares come to life; unable to escape because they never grew older. They all found ways to kill themselves, lass. Most of them didn't even leave enough for a proper burial. You can see for yourself, if you like." He gestures with his Hook to a small brown-leather journal that sits on top of one of the maps. Her fingers practically itch to be flipping through those pages, but her mind is a little more cautious and tentative. Her only point of reference for a captain's logbook is the Star Trek series of movies and shows, so doesn't really know what to expect.

The yellowed pages are all filled—written on right-side up and sideways, bottom to top. Except for the last two pages at the back. A list of names, about 25 men in all, is written in a more elaborate version of the penmanship that appears on all the other leaves. Alongside each name is a number and the manner in which they died; Emma tries to avoid the descriptions, but the numbers seem odd to her. The final page, technically part of the binding only has two things on it: the number 309,951 and the word home. "Two ways to mark dates, love: day, month, and year, or number of days since achieving captaincy."

Emma knows that he had spent a long time in Neverland and had expected him to be about the same age, essentially, as Rumplestiltskin. "So, the numbers next to your crew's names?"

"The day they died, lass." He's leaning back against the windows now, watching the wheels in her mind working through the math. She notices that his body is set in what she privately refers to as his 'I'm pretending not to care' pose—legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, hook resting on the pommel of his sword, and thumb curled around his belt. But he can't help the razor sharp anxiety from revealing itself to her through his eyes.

Give or take, he's been captain, and therefore alive, for almost… "I did warn you that time moves differently in Neverland, Swan. And even after I learned the secret of defeating the Crocodile, it took me a long time to figure out a way to leave." He's still watching for her reaction like a hawk, and calling her by her last name means that he's distancing himself, expecting it to be bad.

"When you said that you'd been plotting your revenge for a long time, I didn't think you meant more than 850 years. But in terms of our world, you're still a young 325 or so, right?... You're looking good for your age, at least." Killian's jaw drops—Emma can hear a loud pop and then crack when he snaps his mouth shut. Clearly, it's a touchy subject for him, otherwise she might be tempted to tease him about it. _Good ammunition for later though_. "Are these the maps you were looking for?"

He nods, letting her roll them up and head back out onto the deck. After a brief moment to collect himself, he follows, shaking his head and wearing a bemused smile. _Always ready to surprise me, aren't you, my princess?_

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As the sun sets, Rumplestiltskin remains up on deck, as one by one the others go down below to get some rest. Now that they've reach land and placed a concealment spell on the vessel, they don't need to worry about the watches quite as much, nor do they need a full team since they have dropped anchor. Shorter night watches with one person on guard will be sufficient. The Dark One chose the first watch for a reason. The second night in Neverland, and again, two nights later, he had felt _something_… Some powerful magic had worked its way onto the vessel; not another creature like the Rusalki, and nor was it Emma herself. Although, unless he missed his guess, the princess' magic would be finding a way to reveal itself to him soon. His smile deepens at the thought. Because she hasn't really had a need to tap into it, he has no idea how powerful she is. No doubt, between himself and the dangers of Neverland, a way will be found to discover her potential.

_He had kept watch for the presence, for lack of a better word. And it was a subtle thing indeed. He had felt it slip ever so gently into the sleeping minds of the pirate and Miss Swan, giving them nearly imperceptible "nudges" before disappearing. The hint of satisfaction that the presence projected had made him curious; so, Rumplestiltskin had just as carefully sent a bit of magic toward Regina and Snow, putting them into a light doze. And then he discovered the truth behind the adage, that eavesdroppers seldom uncover good things. Slipping inside the dream had opened his eyes to the very real, very strong connection which existed between his old foe and the mother of his grandson. Emma's magic flowed between the two of them the moment the link was strong enough to send them deeper, far enough to transport them to Dreamscape—a realm very similar to the Netherworld._

_ The Dark One watched in awe, then envy, and then in anger as the savior's magic began to delicately heal injuries in the pirate's body. It was not as fast or as flashy as when he healed someone, but the recovery was more complete. There was a sophistication to her method that surprised him—she did not just repair the wounds, but left the tissues entirely regenerated—as good as the day they had been formed. Clearly, it was slower work; because healing that much damage took a great deal of strength and power, but also because she was entirely unconscious that she was doing anything. Hook's cracked ribs should have taken months to re-knit fully; Emma had accomplished it in a matter of days. And the long gashes from the Rusalki's claws were already pink, puckered scars beneath the still-unchanged bandages. _

_ But all this came before they began dreaming about each other. In his 300 years as the Dark One, he had heard many a strange tale; but two people sharing dreams with each other?... Faint memories of a legend stirred in his brain, but his rage banished it from his mind. The woman who had claimed to love his boy, who had brought Henry into this world was falling in love with the man he hated most in all the realms! But not merely falling—she already loved him, already cared for him more than her own life. She had proved that when she had gone with him to New York, after he had threatened to kill Hook. He had hoped, once they had discovered that Baelfire was Henry's father, that the feelings she had for the captain would fade away. Either their connection had already been stronger than Rumplestiltskin had realized, or Bae's death had sent her back into the pirate's arms._

_ A snarl of fury had broken from his throat and he screamed a curse at the winds. A whirling dervish of scarlet smoke enveloped the entire ship, transporting them a few miles away from shore—just far enough away, so that reaching land would still take a while. A believable distance. He "woke" the two queens, allowing one of them to make the discovery before he gleefully rang the alarm bell. The dream itself shattered like dropped glass and both Emma and Hook had been violently wrenched back into their respective bodies. Since Dreamscape was a real place, the Dark One maliciously hoped that their return trip was a painful one._

Rumplestiltskin waits until he is certain that everyone is completely asleep and does not bother to wake Charming for his watch. The long years have taught him that persistence often rewards those who follow it. Soon enough, a little magical tug happens, and he knows that the presence has returned. Sickeningly, the connection between Emma and Hook is stronger than it was even the night before. Two dreaded words sear themselves across his brain. The captain and the savior once again travel to Dreamscape, but this time, the Dark One sends a few tendrils of crimson and violet magic along for the ride.

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"Come on, Killian. I'm sure you look fine."

"You picked each of these garments and simply thrust them at me with the command to 'put these on or die.' I don't believe that makes you the best person to judge the state of my appearance." Emma smiles because he still speaks like an actor in a period piece. Clearly, she hasn't rubbed off on him enough. _Or against him enough_.

"Are you sure this is even decent? My normal rig leaves far more to the imagination, lass." She's ready to go and physically drag him out, when she finally sees the pair of work boots she bought for him start to come down the stairs. The outfit is entirely modern, but the man inside the clothes is still the dangerous pirate she adores. She'd grabbed him a pair of light blue jeans, a white button down shirt, and a black vest with white pin stripes. The shirt is open up at the collar, like he would normally wear except it's untucked, and he left the vest unbuttoned as well. He's rolled the sleeves up on both arms, revealing the old tattoo on one and extensive burn scarring on the other. When his hand was restored to him, the scars somehow remained behind. Despite having no choice in what she's given him to wear, Killian did, however, draw the line at losing his jewelry.

Emma's mouth literally starts to water at the sight, but she manages to only reveal her reaction with a lift of her eyebrow. "It is very, very far from decent how hot you look in that."

"It's actually a touch on the cool side—did you happen to bring a jacket to go with all this? My normal coat just won't-" She walks straight up to him, grabbing one side of his vest to close the distance between their bodies. Her other hand reaches up to place itself over his lips.

"When someone looks hot, Killian, it means that they look absolutely, positively edible; that from across a room or a street, you take one look at them and your whole body starts to heat up, starts to anticipate, starts to fantasize about all the ways you want them." She takes his hands in hers, guiding them to her bare skin, at her throat and at her back underneath her sweater. Their faces are so close, noses barely brushing each other, lips flirting with the idea of coming together. "Try something new, _darling_. It's called taking a compliment when I give you one."

Killian smiles at that. One of the many things he loves about his Swan: she can take his lines, spit them back at him, and make them sounds somehow both ridiculous and sexier than hell. In all his long years in Neverland, he never dreamed that one day, he would be free like this again. He hadn't led a perfect life before, but something must have gone right somewhere along the way. "Thank you, princess." He'd meant for it to be a simple, chaste kiss, but his Emma as always has other ideas.

Before he knows it, his back is against the green wooden door, and Swan is absolutely ravishing his mouth. He chuckles both at her voraciousness and the irony of his situation; when it comes to the physical realm, his love is never shy about informing him precisely what she wants from him. In diamond-clear, vivid detail. Right now, his lass just wants to celebrate that they are here in this moment together—not trapped in Neverland, not pretending to be anything other than what they are. Lovers. Which is why she had all but demanded that he dress in what she had termed "normal clothes" for the day; today, they stopped hiding who they were to each other. Reluctantly he breaks the silence, because he is thoroughly enjoying the nips and kisses she's lavishing on his throat and jaw at the moment. "Didn't you say that there was someplace we had to go, love?"

Emma pauses for barely a second, before biting down hard on the skin just above his collar bone and then flicking her tongue over the reddened flesh. He groans, only halfway regretting telling her exactly what that particular bit of foreplay does to him. "You're right… Later." She walks away to grab her keys off the kitchen counter and also to give him just a little time and space to cool off. But after locking up, they go down the stairs hand in hand and stroll out onto the streets of Storybrooke. Destination: Granny's. After a relatively short, but frequently distracted, conversation, they decided that simply sitting down to a meal together and holding hands would be enough to get the whole town gossiping and sharing the news. Although, Killian had rolled his eyes when he had been informed that they would probably end up with some mish-mash nickname that defined them the moment they took their relationship public; he doubted at times that he would ever truly understand the world that Emma grew up in.

Strangely, the streets are fairly deserted. No one is out and about, or peeking out of their shop doors and windows. It almost looks like it did the night the Wraith passed through looking to claim Regina's soul. "I'm not the only one getting a bad feeling about this, am I love?" Emma shakes her head, letting go of his hand so that she can draw her gun.

"And of course, you'd _insist_ that I leave all of _my_ weapons at home."

"If you weren't acting like such a girl right now, I'd be thrilled that you just referred to my place as 'home'."

Killian grabs her arm and pulls her body up against his, silencing her protest about gun safety with a swift, hard kiss. She feels light-headed when his mouth leaves hers. "My home is wherever _you_ lay your head, princess. You never give up. _You_ always bring me home." She can't help the tears of joy that spring up at his words because they feel so damn true, so damn right! But before she can do anything, the earth drops and shakes like it did when Greg and Tamara activated the trigger. Emma reaches out for Killian, but a crack forms in the asphalt; more violent shifting and trembling happens, and before she knows it, there's a wide chasm yawning between them.

A dark purple smoke starts boiling up from below and soon, everything is lost to sight. That's when Killian's agonized screaming starts.

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Snow startles instantly awake and immediately senses that something is wrong. She and David and Regina are all still sitting at the dinner table in the mess/galley. They were talking over their options for the morning, and then…nothing. As if they all spontaneously fell asleep at the same moment. The ship rocks violently, as if they are back in the terrible storm they sailed through the first night. Snow reaches over to shake her husband, but he only slumps further down in his chair. In fact, the only thing that wakes him is his head connecting with the hard floor after another plunge of the ship throws him out of his chair.

"Snow! Emma!"

"I'm here, David! We need to find the others and figure out what's wrong!" A loud roar rumbles through the whole ship and all is ominously still and quiet. Regina has also awoken and just barely managed to get on her feet when the fire in the cook stove rages from dead ashes to uncontrollable life. The three royals break for the door, which refuses to budge. Flames roll up the ceiling and start to merrily devour the small room.

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Rumplestiltskin cackles gleefully when the smoke from Emma's dream separates her and the pirate—it means that the psychic connection is broken, and her magic no longer protects Hook. He enters the other man's dreams, finding his most painful memories and nightmares, setting them loose on his mind. Immediately, howls of tortured suffering issue from the captain's quarters. To the Dark One, it's a veritable symphony to hear his foe in such acute distress and misery. But his enjoyment only lasts until the water around the ship begins to chop and swirl menacingly. The Jolly Roger plunges and bucks, casting him down against the deck. The wooden planks actually starts to melt and shift, like sand, trapping his hands and arms. The princess' magic is far, far greater than he could have ever conceived, identifying him and swiftly attacking the threat. And he has just sent the only man capable of controlling Emma Swan into a waking night terror.

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David has to use a cleaver instead of his sword, which is in their cabin, but he finally manages to weaken the door enough for them to smash their way out. Smoke pours out into the hallways and other rooms. "Regina! Any luck controlling them?"

The queen shakes her head, coughing furiously. "Magic! Someone is fueling the flames magically!"

They run out on deck, still fighting the wild movements of the ship, which they can now see sits directly in a whirlpool. Rumplestiltskin lies prone on the deck, arms and knees actually disappearing into the wood. He's yelling at them and struggling to get free, but both are equally useless. Finally, Snow manages to slip down close to the old man. His voice is shrill and piercing, but it needs to be in order to carry over the groans of the vessel and the sucking of the vortex. "It's Emma! She's having a nightmare, and her magic is trying to protect her! Get Hook!"

"Wait, what?! I don't understand!"

"He's the only one who can get through to her! She'll see even you as a threat! Wake the pirate! Get him to Emma!"

Having mentioned his enemy's name, Snow instantly knows that the Dark One is somehow responsible for all of this. There's no other explanation, either for the Captain to not be above deck already or for Rumplestiltskin to know that he is asleep. Placing each hand carefully, finding finger holds in the seams of the deck, Snow crawls back toward the stairs to the cabins. She mouths the words "no time" to David before heading below. Now, she can hear Killian Jones' screaming.

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He roars again as the Dark One thrusts his hand into Emma's chest; then Milah's. And each time, Killian can feel it in his own—like having a red-hot poker piercing your heart and it being twisted. Over and over and over. Emma; then Milah. He can hear his own voice mocking him as he struggles against the magical bonds holding him. "_A man who doesn't fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets_." He dislocates his right shoulder from thrashing his body wildly. But the pain means so little with every death he has to watch. Emma; then Milah. Emma; then Milah. Emma. Emma love.

Suddenly, his body feels like it's being pummeled by an unseen opponent, and an invisible right hook whips his head violently to the side.

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"Captain Killian Jones! Wake! The Hell! Up!" Snow balls up her right fist and punches his jaw as hard as she can. She hears a sickening crack, but his screaming finally stops. Unfortunately, the bucking and groaning of the ship doesn't.

"What the?-"

"No time! You have to get to Emma now!" Awake, but disoriented, Killian tries to make sense of the young queen's words. "Damn it, man! My daughter needs you! Emma needs to wake up!"

"She's doing this?! Bloody hell!" He tries to spring out of bed, but ends up in a heap on the floor. He knows how a ship moves in a maelstrom, but the only thought in his mind was to get to his Swan. He stumbles drunkenly to her cabin. "Emma love! You have to stop this!"

He rams his shoulder against the door several times before forcing it open. The princess lies on the floor, palms pressed down against the wood glowing golden and emerald green. A vicious plunge of the ship sends him to his knees, jarring his sore shoulder and jaw. He manages to reach her side quickly, but has no clue how to go about waking someone from a magically-powered nightmare. He's thrown away from her, against the side of her bunk. "Emma, please! You'll kill us all! You'll destroy my ship!"

He's been so panicked, so afraid for her that he's forgotten one of the very first things he learned about commanding a vessel. In a cacophony of sounds, the lowest pitches are the ones best heard. He crawls back over to her and straddles her waist before leaning over her. "Apologies for the positions, lass. Please, Emma. Please wake up for me, darling. I'm right here; I'm alright. But I won't be for much longer if you don't stop your magic, love. Come back to me, Emma love." He places a soft kiss right beneath the ear that he's been speaking in.

"It's time to wake, princess." The second the words leave his mouth, the brutal movements of the ship stops and the sounds of the whirlpool disappear, leaving only silence behind. Killian's arms are resting on either side of her head, and he pushes himself up to look at her face. Emma's green eyes are wide open in shock and glowing with her magic. "Welcome back, beautiful."

She registers his smile and his words, but still can't quite believe it. "You're here? You're okay?" She reaches a hand out to cup his cheek, and he allows himself to lean into the simple caress.

"I'm here, lass. It's alright." They're both still remembering the dream; the panic and terror, certainly, but also the raw power of the emotions they'd experienced prior to that. Almost as if they had been allowed just a taste of what could be, what _can_ be. Emma suddenly becomes very aware of the fact that not only are there no walls up for either of them to be hiding behind, but that Killian's body lies entirely on top of hers. The only thing preventing the brush of skin on skin is her thin linen blouse and their leather pants.

They are caught up in this moment, aware to their souls that the consequences of it could be the fulcrum, the pivotal instant in which the direction of their lives alters irrevocably. Emma doesn't breathe as Killian's lips move closer, flicking her gaze rapidly between them and his eyes. He runs his fingers over her fanned-out curls. "So beautiful, my Emma love." And as it happens every time she hears the truth, a sense of rightness and peace settles over her. She shifts her head up, ever so slightly and rests her forehead against his. A sigh—of relief, of contentment—passes through them both. Suddenly, the warmth of his body is gone, and Emma's eyes fly open.

David has Killian by his hair, fist pulled back and ready to strike. Jones wears an annoyed, resigned expression. "Dad, No!" Green and gold sparks appear out of nowhere, swirling between the two men and literally pushing her father back against the wall of the cabin. Emma stares at her out-stretched hand. "Was that?"

Snow peeks around the door frame. "Yes, honey, I think it was. Now, can you let go of your father, please?"


	12. Wronged

**A/N: Back to Henry, sort of. (:**

**PeaceHeather: I read your thoughts on Hook/Henry… Based on everything I know of Henry, he seems to be very wise for his years. I don't know that he would necessarily reject or dislike Hook being a part of the rescue mission. He understands better than any other character in the show, that people deserve a chance to redeem themselves. He MIGHT have an issue with Hook putting the moves on his Mom though. Lol**

**imke14: I'm going to embarrass you in front of all of my readers now… Thank you so much for your reviews! It means so much to me to get feedback of any kind. If you allowed PMs, I would answer yours in detail, as I do with every one that comes though. You are fabulous, dearie!**

**On with the fic….**

Tamara kneels in front of the altar, barely aware anymore of the protests her body is making. She's been here for hours, praying and doing penance. She moves to prostrate herself, so that her legs will feel the full force of their pain once more and her torso will become chilled against the rough stone floor. But a wrinkled old hand comes to rest on her shoulder. "Enough of this silent atonement, my daughter. You have buffeted your body sufficiently for today. Our lord does not require his soldiers to go into battle broken entirely in their flesh. I will hear your confession now, and then, if necessary, will assign a more thorough mortification."

She looks up into the ancient, kindly face of the only earthly father she has ever known. "I will obey, Father Peter. But I am still weak in the spirit."

"Let grayer hairs than yours be the judge of that. Now, tell me: what troubles you? You have done as commanded; you were absolved in advance of the sins you would commit in the name of our lord on this mission. You are one of his most faithful workers in the vineyard—why do you spend hours seeking mercy which is already yours?" His voice trembles with sympathy and compassion, not with age. A tear slips down her cheek before she wipes the traitor away.

"You know why, Father. The man I knew as Neal Cassidy is dead by my hand. He could have been our strongest ally—his hatred of magic and darkness burned like a bright light, even when I pretended ignorance of who he was and where he came from. At the very least, he could have been used to control the Chosen, but I…"

"Do not think me a fool, my child. This deed does weigh heavily on your conscience, but you always have gone to extremes when chastising your flesh. Unburden yourself; tell me why."

"Because of her."

_She ran carefully through the woods, watching for gators and other predators. The way to Mere Argent's shack was known to many, but few dared admit that they'd sought out the old hag. For a quiet, observant young girl, learning the path was easy; taking it was the hard part. But desperate souls often view the steep and thorny road as their only option. Tamara slowed down to catch her breath, seeing the witch's cabin for the first time. The clapboards were old and weathered down to a brown-gray, nearly indistinguishable from the trunks of the nearby willow trees. The entire place smelled musty—of shed snake skins, mildew, and loam. _

_Pale green Spanish moss grew all along the tin roof, making it look as if the old house had grown out of the bayou and swamp itself, just so Mere Argent could live there. Grass-weaved baskets littered the small yard, filled with bits of food and bones—offerings to the spirits and the loa. Tamara picked her way across the damp grasses carefully, unwilling to disturb whatever might be lurking in the shadows. Heart in her throat, she pounded on the door; a fine mist of dirt and leaves fell on her head. "Mere Argent, please! I need your help. My Mama needs your help!"_

_ "I already know, chile." Tamara whipped around to see the gnarled old woman sitting in a rocking chair in the shade of one of the willows. "I know she's gonna die if I do nothin'. But that's just life, girl."_

_ "Everyone says you are powerful. They say you can do anything. They say—"_

_ "'They' can say whatever they want—won't change a damn thing. There're powers at work in this world, child; dangerous, frightfully strong forces for dark and light, good and evil, damnation and salvation… But you must respect them all! There's a reason for everything, a time and a purpose. Your Mama—ain't nothin' I can do for her. Magic can't bring back the dead, and it also can't save a soul what's been marked a goddess herself. You try arm-wrastlin' with the Trivia 'bout this, you gonna wind up hurt! The only thing you __**can**__ do, girl? Take yourself on down to a crossroads at twilight, midnight, or dawn—any time you have a transition. You offer something precious to the goddess, well? Might be she may just answer you."_

_ Tamara just stared at the woman. She'd heard of such things—deals made in the dark with a devil. But if it would spare Mama's life, then it just might be worth it. She nodded her head grimly, lips set in a stubborn, determined line. "Just you remember, girl child. You can't go cryin' down a storm when a powerful goddess says you 'no.' Your Mama is special to the Trivia… Maybe this is just her way of taking her precious angel home before there's a whole __**world**__ of hurtin' in store for her." Without looking back once, she flew home as fast as her legs could carry her childish body._

_ In the end, Tamara had spent all night at the crossroads, careful to bring an offering to the goddess for all three of the transitions. But the goddess never showed up, and by the time she got home, her Mama was already gone. Tamara had sat on the front row all through the service at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at St. Michael's—the holy community that gave the small Louisiana town its name. She hadn't wanted to stand next to the priest as they lowered her Mama into the ground, so she stayed praying in the side chapel where the service had been held._

_ A priest came forward from behind her, knelt beside her, and crossed himself. He was younger—maybe in his early thirties with wood-brown hair and mossy-green eyes—and Tamara could not remember having seen him before. She and her mother had come to hear mass often, but not as often as her Mama had prayed and made offerings to the Trivia. The thought made her sick to her stomach, and she resumed her feverish praying for her mother's soul. "I can tell that something troubles you, my daughter. Any death is at least a little sad, even if we know our loved ones have gone on to their reward. But you haven't stopped telling your rosary since you arrived and your grieving… called to me. Why aren't you crying, my child?"_

"Oh, my dear Tamara! You have always had a calling to seek and save lost souls. Your mother was merely the first of our lord's straying lambs that were sent your way. You were but a child, and our father knows that if your innocent example of faith and obedience were not enough to make her see the error of her ways, then she was already forever lost to him. Her damnation was not your fault."

"But I should have done more, Father Peter! All of the lost children that I bring to you, every mission I go on… I can't help but go and do his bidding with a prayer in my heart that my actions will be enough to grant her mercy."

The bent old man's expression quickly grows stormy, reminding her of all the force of his personality. His body may be frail and dying, but his spirit and faith are as strong as the day when he took her away from her home in Convent, when he first began to train her as the lord's soldier. "You must cease this foolishness. She is beyond your help. Seek instead to help those who are not yet beyond saving, like young Henry. Speak to the boy; explain to him that your intent was never to harm either him or his father."

Tamara had purposely kept her distance from the Chosen since she and Greg had turned him over to Father Peter's care. Guilt had burrowed into her chest and compelled her to seek penance in prayer; she hadn't loved Neal, but she had liked him. He was weak willed, but had had a kind, generous soul. She would rather wear a hair shirt than face the boy again, but Father Peter, as always, seems to know exactly what she is thinking and feeling. "Talk to Henry. Do your best to convince him of the justice, the righteousness of our cause. _Then_, you will be free of this burden of guilt and sin."

With the help of a driftwood cane, Father Peter rises from the pew and slowly walks out of the chapel. Tamara looks up, as if the answers will suddenly come to her directly from the heavens. She finds herself staring at a stained-glass window, depicting the father as a shepherd with a flock of sheep and goats. For the first time, she realizes that the face of the lord is almost a perfect replica of Father Peter's in his youth.

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Henry stares at the wall opposite the one he's leaning against. It's some time in the afternoon, so he doesn't have the colorful sunrise to look forward to just yet. He spoke to Trinity again, just before dawn the day before today; apparently, she somehow found out that Captain Hook's ship had brought his family to Neverland. He hadn't actually _met_ the famous pirate,-just briefly saw him at the apartment in Storybrooke—but Henry knows his story. His real story. He just isn't sure how to feel about it. He'd tried to kill his grandpa, Mr. Gold; but Mr. Gold had killed the captain's girlfriend; but the girlfriend was actually Rumplestiltskin's wife, who was also Henry's grandma… He understands both sides of the blood feud between the Dark One and the pirate, but that doesn't make the way he feels about it any less complicated. Both men had loved once, and that love had become twisted beyond recognition into hatred of each other.

It's certainly not the most fun thing to think about, but what else does he have to do with his time. He tried thinking of good memories, happy thoughts that would help him stay strong. Flashes, images of birthday parties spent with his Mom, playing with Grace on the playground the last time he was at school, hot cocoa with cinnamon at Granny's… All the things that he wants to get back to, so that he can bring his family together. He tries not to think about the faces of those who should be there, but who won't. Graham, who was an okay guy, even if he did kiss Emma; people who died a long time ago, and he never met, like Milah and Ruth and Stealthy; and his dad, Baelfire. So, he tries to think about the future instead. What kind of horse will he ride when they all go back to the Enchanted Forest? How long _does_ it take to become a knight? His great Uncle James trained to be a knight for years, but it only took Gramps a little while to learn.

He's finally to the point where he's staging a battle with a dragon into which he rode on a gryphon (Operation Eagle Feather), when the door to his cell opens. Greg has been in to talk to him once a day for the last three days, but this time it's Tamara who walks in. He knows that she's the one who's to blame for Neal being shot and sucked into a portal. He knows that she's a villain, and he suddenly feels that he has to make sure that _she_ knows it to. "You know, you never had Emma fooled. Or me. We knew you were up to something because we can tell when someone is trying to lie to us. It's our superpower."

"Emma uses magic! You just have good instincts because you're a kid." She looks a little confused after she speaks, like something she said didn't come out right.

But he knows that she's telling him the truth, or at least that she believes what she's said. Henry tilts his head to the side and studies the woman; she clearly doesn't like people who are powerful in some way. "Why do you hate magic so much? I mean, I've seen it do some pretty cool things. Like, you can use it to protect people, or heal someone! My grandpa actually waved his hand over my arm and a huge blister just-"

"Enough! Magic isn't good, ever Henry! People are supposed to get better, or they're supposed to die—not take short cuts. It's unnatural for anyone to be able to do those things. Anyone who wields magic should be destroyed!" She claps her hands over her mouth, shocked at what she's just said. "I didn't mean to tell you that… But I hate people who use magic because one of them wouldn't heal my Mother, so she died. And I had to grow up without her, but Father Peter took me in. And I've been doing—"

Henry watches perplexed as she runs out and slams the door shut behind her. Then he hears a giggle from just below his window. "Trinity! You're back! What just happened to her? Is she okay?"

Her black eyes dance with fun and mischief, even in the deepening shadows of the sunset. "Oh, she's fine—she just tried lying to you is all. But that's neither here nor there. We spotted the ship, Henry! Your family is here! The only problem with that is that I won't be seeing you for a bit. But I'll be sending some friends so you know you aren't alone." She trills out a bird-song whistle and two shaggy black dogs step out of the shadows.

"As long as you stay strong, everything will be alright, Henry. Just keep resisting Pan; don't let him or Tamara or Greg talk you into giving up. He'll promise you the moon and stars, but all you'll get is death and chaos. My sister and I have to go now. We'll track down your family and bring them here as quickly as we can."

"Wait! You have a sister here too? I thought only children who were completely lost come here."

"Dinah is just really shy. She likes animals more than she likes most people." Trinity heaves a sigh, looking uncertain. "Can I tell you a secret, Henry? People can find themselves lost in many ways. You could have a humongous family who loves you deeply, and still feel as if you've been misplaced. Or you could be by yourself on a mountain top and never truly feel as if you're ever alone. Being lost… it's as much about who you are, on the inside, as whether or not you "belong" somewhere. It's about knowing and accepting yourself and where you come from. Now I really have to go. Hector and Paris will watch out for you."

Trinity's face disappears from his window again, and Henry watches her climb down. The dogs follow her back into the twilight underneath the foliage, but their yellow eyes stand out against the grays of the forest. He doesn't know why exactly, but knowing that he's being watched over makes him more nervous that relieved.


	13. Magic Lesson

**A/N: Just a head's up… My rating doesn't change, because I'm working the MMPA rule—I get up to two usages of F%#$ before I have to leave PG-13 territory. And I use it properly in context.**

"Now, Miss Swan, the first rule of magic is-"

"You do not talk about using magic?" Emma's grin fades when she realizes that only her father catches the reference; Killian and her mother just look confused, and Rumplestiltskin's frown grows more pronounced. He stops directly in front of her, leaning closer to her over his cane menacingly. She sits cross-legged on one of the latticed hatches that cover the hold access, waiting with less patience rather than more for their lesson to really begin. The Dark One resumes his pacing back and forth.

"A little more focus, if you please. The first rule of magic, Miss Swan, is that all magic comes with a price. Think of these rules as scientific laws, like gravity. They are constant, and there are no exceptions to them. Second, all magic requires a power source. Now usually, that source is the emotions, the feelings of the spell caster. But, power can also be drawn from around you—IF, the land you are in has magic. The portals you've gone through—the energy source that powered them was linked to a specific object, but they also drew energy from outside the spell."

"That's why we sailed right into a storm, isn't it? Because the portal was pulling magic out of Neverland." The Dark One looks a bit surprised, but pleased that she seems to be catching on so quickly. Emma flicks a glance over to Jones, winking at him when Rumplestiltskin's back is turned.

"Indeed, you are correct. Using a lot of magic for one spell or in one area _can_ effect the natural worlds. Some people in your world like to think of magic as being something wrong or unnatural, but in the world were it belongs, magic runs through everything. But that's the fourth rule, and I'm getting ahead of myself. Now, the third rule of magic is that magic is finite. When you use your emotions—when you channel bits and pieces of yourself into a spell, like any other way to spend your energy—you will eventually exhaust yourself. So, in addition to all the other things you need to keep your body physically and magically healthy, you need to give yourself time to rest." Emma cocks an eyebrow at that.

"Did my mother twist your arm on that one?" She shoots a glance over at Snow, who looks fairly amused, but holds her hands up in a gesture signaling that she had no influence over what had just been said.

"Indeed she did not, Miss Swan, but the fact remains. You are in many ways, like a magical battery—when you become depleted, you need to be recharged. Right now, you're having the opposite problem: your powers have been awakened, and you are not actively using them. So, the extra power, needing to go somewhere, made your dreams very real to the rest of us last night." Emma glances down to avoid a particular captain's gaze; if what Rumplestiltskin says is true, then maybe it wasn't just her nightmare from the previous evening, maybe _**all**_ of them have been more than just dreams.

"So, if my nightmares can become real, what does that mean for normal dreams?"

"There are many theories regarding that, Miss Swan. Dream manifestation, dream-scaping as it is sometimes called, is not one of my abilities. When the mind sleeps, when we dream, we can sometimes enter another plane of consciousness. Our essences travel to a dreamland, and when someone like yourself is able to manipulate this other realm, you can pull others into your dream. Or, you can make the events in that land happen wherever you are. Either way, whatever occurs is as real as anything that is done while awake. As I said, the fourth rule of magic relates magic inhabiting everything in the worlds to which it belongs and to disrupting the weather and such in the worlds. The fifth rule… That's where we are going to run into a bit of a problem in me teaching you."

At this, everyone's attention shoots back to the Dark One, but it is the pirate who gives voice to their thoughts. "And what difficulty might that be, Crocodile?" He makes the word sound like a vile curse, mistrust and hatred apparent in every line of his body. Emma catches his eyes and holds her hand down in a placating gesture, but none of the tension leaves Killian's body. Rumplestiltskin sneers threateningly, but stays put; he did, after all, promise the captain that he could live.

"Because of two things, _Hook_: one, Emma is a basically good person at heart, and two, she is the product of true love. Those things combined make her magic fundamentally different from mine. Defensive, as opposed to offensive."

"So, I can't fight you or anyone else with magic? I can only defend myself?" Emma isn't sure that she likes the sound of that. True, her magic had prevented Cora from ripping out her heart, but it hadn't prevented her from being tossed around like a rag-doll in Gold's shop back in Storybrooke.

"I said fundamentally, dearie, not entirely. Of course you will be able to fight using magic, but because of your nature, you will not automatically be striking out with the intent to kill. Your anger, your hatred—neither of those runs deep enough to harm without provocation; you will always want to give your enemy the chance to choose the right path. For all that you've seen people do horrible things, Miss Swan, you still have faith in the basic goodness of humanity. You get that from your mother."

Snow looks shocked, but then smiles at the Dark One as if he has paid her the best of compliments. "The other side to this, dearie, is that your powers will be at their strongest when those you love are threatened. The greater the danger to them, well, the hotter you'll burn, so to speak." Malicious glee leaks out of his voice and into his smile, setting Emma's nerves even further on edge. She _knows_ that she doesn't like where this is going. "You remember how I had you cast the protection spell over my shop back in Storybrooke?"

She nods once, not daring to break eye contact or stop watching his movements; when people are planning on trying to attack you by surprise, their body and eyes give them away more often than not. "We don't have any specific boundaries for you, like the walls, so you are going to have to find a way to create a boundary around the object you wish to protect." He stops pacing at this point, and it is only the slight flick of the wrist of his right hand that indicates where he is going to strike first.

A ball of fire forms in the air in front of him and quickly launches itself at David and Snow. They throw themselves to the ground, narrowly dodging the flames which singe a hole into the deck of the Jolly Roger. "Oi! No destroying my ship with these lessons!" Another ball launches itself in Killian's direction and soon flames are leaping after all three of them. When Emma tries to get up, she finds that Rumplestiltskin has warped the wood of the lattice, creating shackles for her wrists and ankles.

The Dark One tsks at her and wags his index finger back and forth. "Ah, ah, ah. Only magic, Miss Swan." She feels helpless watching her parents and Jones duck and run and duck again. She desperately wills for something, _anything_ to come between them and those wicked looking flames, and notices that the pirate in particular is starting to panic the closer they come. _Is he afraid of fire?_ She and Rumplestiltskin seem to realize this fact at the same time, because the next ball burns red-white hot and grows larger. Killian's eyes become even wider, and Emma screams when she realizes that he intends to jump overboard to avoid being burned alive.

She feels something snap inside of her—a feeling that certainly isn't pleasant, but isn't quite painful either. Instead of falling into the ocean, Killian looks as if he is suspended in mid air. In the middle of a wind storm that glows with flecks of green and gold. The balls of flame have been completely snuffed out, as if deprived of oxygen. Snow, David, and Killian are all surrounded by winds that whip their clothing about, and though they seem to be shouting at Rumplestiltskin and Emma, none of them can be heard over the roaring air currents.

Just as quickly as they had appeared, the swirling sparkles vanish and the winds stop. The Dark One banishes the shackles holding Emma, who folds into herself. She feels like she has just received a sucker-punch to the stomach. Snow and David immediately run to her, yelling at Rumplestiltskin, while Jones grabs the smaller man by the jacket and has him pinned to the mainmast in seconds. "What the bloody hell was that for, Crocodile?! What did you do to her?!"

Rumplestiltskin's voice goes low and gravelly. "She had to believe that her loved ones were truly in danger. That's how her magic works! Now, I kindly suggest that you let me go, _pirate_, or I will forget my promise to let you live and skin you where you stand." Killian drops him as if burned and runs over to where the Charmings are helping their daughter sit up. _Her loved_ _**ones**__?_ "She'll be fine, your majesties. Give her room to breathe." Within seconds of saying this, a huge grin splits his face and he begins to laugh.

"What is so funny about any of this, Gold?" David gets up from his wife and daughter's side, looking ready to commit murder. The older man is doubled over, cackling maniacally.

"Oh! _Room to breathe_!" He breaks down again, laughing until tears are starting to stream down his lined cheeks. "Your daughter wields _Air_, Prince Charming. Absolutely, fundamentally opposed to my magic in every way. Where Regina and Cora and I, or any other dark magic user casts a spell, it manifests itself in our element: fire. Miss Swan's element, what she controls to help harness her powers, is the very air we're breathing now."

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Emma stares at the ceiling above her bunk like she has for the last couple of hours. Her dad had helped her limp below deck and collapse on the uncomfortable surface before leaving her alone to recover. Her body feels like she has run a marathon. Then been hit by a Mack truck, repeatedly. In a way she wasn't prepared for, her mind and heart feel precisely the same way—battered, bruised, and mashed and not at all normal. She had been afraid for her parents, of them being hurt by Rumplestiltskin's magic; but her greatest terror and her strongest emotional reaction had been the threat posed to Killian. _If_ her dreams were more than what they seemed, if they were somehow real like everyone else believed, then every single conversation, every fight…

Every kiss _had_ happened, regardless of whether they had taken place in their minds or some Dreamscape dimension. That she has stopped even mentally referring to him as 'Hook' seems proof enough of the reality of the change that has taken place. She had kissed him and wanted more; in their dream the other night, he had said that he didn't want to stay away from her. He wanted _her_; he came back to Storybrooke and was now on a possible suicide mission for _her_. She doesn't know how to feel about the fact that the man is clearly willing to die for her, but she knows that it is a powerful, terrible burden to hold someone's life in your hands.

A sharp knock sounds, scattering her thoughts. Without waiting for her permission, the person on the other side of the door lets themselves in. Emma doesn't know how she missed the halting cadence of cane and limp, but Rumplestiltskin manages to enter the cabin without revealing his identity a moment before he wishes to. "A moment of your time, please, Miss Swan."

He makes it a statement and not a request. In spite of her exhaustion Emma's body language must telegraph her fury, because the old man raises his left hand in a gesture of surrender. "I have come, first and foremost, to apologize for what must have appeared to be an unprovoked attack on your parents. I would not have allowed any harm to come to them, but you had to believe that their danger was very real and very immediate. Making you _certain_ that they were in harm's way was the most effective and quickest manner of unlocking your abilities."

She continues to glare at him, trying to decide whether or not he's telling lies to her. She crosses her arms over her chest, doing her level best to look intimidating from her seated position. "What about our captain? Have you apologized to _him_ for endangering _his_ life? Are you going to apologize to me for nearly killing the man who is helping me find _my son_? For putting all of our lives in danger by harming the most necessary person on this ship?"

Rumplestiltskin's lips immediately curl back, part snarl and part sneer. "So it is true then—you're on _his_ side in all of this. The man who stole my wife from me, tried to hurt my Belle, aided and abetted Cora in her vendetta against us all. You suddenly find that man _necessary_? How did it happen then, Miss Sawn? Has he been fucking you this whole time, or just since _my son_, the father of _your boy_, died protecting you?"

Emma had thought she was furious before, but now she knows that there is truth to the phrase "so mad you see red." She feels the same rubber-band-snap in her chest before a loud crack sounds in the room and the Dark One slams down hard against the floor. She can see more of those green and gold sparks floating in the air, but this time she focuses on them, creating a netted pattern that hovers over Rumplestiltskin's now prone body. "I will only say this once, Gold, so listen up. Your son _abandoned_ me and Henry. He could have come back at any time, but he didn't. Because Neal was a coward and ran away, I spent ten years alone, ten years without _my_ son. And "that man" is helping us find Henry, so yes, he is necessary. And Killian Jones may be a lot of things—he's a pirate, a bandit, a thief, a home-wrecker, a scoundrel, a liar—and I should want to have nothing to do with him. But he's also a man of honor—he came back. When he could have let us all die, he risked dying himself. He did the right thing, which is more than anyone can say for your son."

Emma lets go of the net, trying to collapse as gracefully as possible back on to her bunk. "Now get out, and take your apologies with you."

"This isn't the last word on the matter, dearie. I don't want that—_thing_ anywhere near my grandson. Henry is all that I have left of Baelfire, and I will not have him tainted or associating with the likes of that pirate scum." Dusting himself off carefully, the old man leaves with as much dignity as he can muster. Emma gratefully crumples into herself, unable to keep up the show of strength any longer. Using magic against the Dark One twice in one day is clearly not the wisest idea she's ever had. Sleep is fast closing in on her this time. _I just stood up to Rumplestiltskin, and I did it by telling him that Killian is a good man…_

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Killian is at the helm when he hears a loud crack and what sounds like a hurricane brewing in the cabin space below. His gaze darts quickly around, noticing that everyone is on deck who is supposed to be, except for the Crocodile. He doesn't stop to think before he's in motion, mind racing over the possible scenarios he'll find. _What reason does the Dark One have for attacking Emma?_ She's already weak from that damned lesson and easy pickings for someone as powerful and malicious as Rumplestiltskin. He jumps down into the hallway, avoiding the ladder steps altogether. He skids to a halt and is ready to break down the door, until he hears Swan's strong, clear voice. But over the wind, he can only hear snatches.

"…pirate…wrecker…scoundrel…liar…want…nothing to do…" He jumps back from the door as if burned and staggers until his back hits the wall. His ears are ringing with words that he's certain she never meant for him to hear, no matter how true they all might be. But hearing them in Emma's voice, with disdain dripping from every syllable… For the first time, Killian is ashamed of the life he has led and for the things that he has done in the name of surviving. He doesn't notice that the winds have stopped howling until the moment the Dark One opens the door and leaves her cabin.

Seeing the very pirate who was just under discussion, Rumplestiltskin glares and growls viciously. "The princess and I were merely having an airing of our differences of opinion regarding her judgment of character. She's safe enough, Hook." The old man limps away, somehow looking as if _he's_ the worse for wear after his confrontation with Emma. Still reeling, but nowhere near satisfied with the Crocodile's word, Killian barges in with venom and rage ready to spill off his tongue. The sight before him pulls him up short.

Emma has managed to curl up in a ball, like a small child or a cat would, and is fast asleep. For once, the lines of worry and pain are gone; she looks so young and so vulnerable that Killian feels the weight of every single year of his unnaturally long life. How can he be so selfish as to want to corrupt someone this young and pure and good? Because he is everything she said and more. His crimes, his quest for vengeance have all led him to the darkest, vilest corners of the human soul. How could such light and beauty be for him? What has he ever done to deserve them? He pulls back the hand that he had stretched out toward her face and, without the longed for touch to her cheek, turns and walks out the door.


	14. Misunderstanding and Meddling

The Jolly Roger bobs on the sheltered water of a small, well-hidden cove. Two women, shrouded in darkness and shadows, stand amid the jungle trees that grow right up to the edge of the cliffs above. They had watched as the entire crew, save one, had safely steered the vessel in and dropped anchor for the night. Only the red moon has risen in the night sky, leaving much of Neverland in relative darkness. Finally, one of them breaks the silence. "I don't see your 'savior,' Sister. Are you positive that she is even with them?"

"Did I not tell you that she was, Light Bringer? She is the daughter of your maiden huntress, and if that were not enough, she is mother to Pan's Chosen. Nothing could have prevented her from beginning this quest. However, the cursed magician interfered with the dream I gave to the young Soteria and her captain last night. Nor is this the first time he has meddled in their affairs. He was seeking to sever their bond, and in the process, he woke her magic. Then today, he tested her; she succeeded, but even my most gifted acolytes could not go up against someone of his power without repercussions. She is resting and needs her other half to fully recover, but he's resisting the call of Hypnos."

The other woman scoffs at this. "He is not her equal, Trivia. She should be-"

"I am well aware, little Sister, that you would save her for our Brother. And if my plan fails, _then_ we may try things your way. I have my own Sight, though, and I tell you that she will ever belong to the realms under my dominion. You may attempt to persuade her otherwise, of course. She may wield air, but she is not made for our world. Besides, she has too many ties now; a year ago, she would have been one of yours, and perfect for our Brother. When you see her with him, you will hopefully understand what I mean."

"I doubt I will ever understand, but I bow to your wisdom for now, Sister." Though no one can possibly see them, they swiftly fade from sight, dissolving as mists before the rising sun.

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Though he's completely drained, Killian calls a meeting of everyone before the final division of watches for the night. The only person missing is the still-sleeping Emma, which falls in line with his plan perfectly. "I have something important that I wish to be placed under collective consideration. As we saw last night and today, the princess' abilities are unpredictable at best, and a loose cannon is the last thing we can afford on the shores of Neverland. I propose that she and Rumplestiltskin remain here, on the vessel, whilst the rest of us begin searching the island."

Everyone erupts into shouting all at once, both at him and at each other. Except that the Dark One stares at him in a calculating, intrigued manner. He raises a hand and quite immediately descends. "And what precisely, may I ask, is your reasoning for leaving your best tracker AND your most powerful magic wielders behind? No offense intended, Your Majesty." He looks over at his former apprentice, who still bristles at his words. Regina is unused to being anything less than the most powerful.

"Because we need someone who can prevent the princess from following us. The Queen can protect the three of us, should the need arise for magical intervention. She would not be able to stop Swan from escaping—which she _will_ try to do—nor is she as qualified to be training the princess in how to control her abilities. Our only hope of getting Emma to the point where she can be of use and not a liability is for you to instill some amount of self-command in her." Killian all but chokes on her name; he'd rather anyone be her teacher aside from Rumplestiltskin. But the fact remains—Emma's powers are far too great for Regina or him or Snow or David to manage. And when he returns with her family at the end of the day, then she'll have even more reason to despise and hate him.

"So what? I'm to be a glorified babysitter while you all search for my grandson?"

Killian is ready with a rebuttal, but Snow places a hand on his arm. "You wouldn't be just watching Emma—you would be training her _and_ guarding the ship. Realistically, we need someone to stay behind. The enchantment on it may not be enough to keep people from finding it; Belle did, after all, with a little determination. If someone else stumbles across it here in Neverland, odds are that it wouldn't be here when we got back. And the Captain is right—if a _**nightmare**_ can make her attack _us_, who knows what would happen out there in the jungles if she were knocked out. Everyone will be in danger then. She'll also be very angry when she finds out we've gone looking for Henry without her. If she reacts instinctively with her magic…"

Snow doesn't know what's caused Killian to ask that Emma be left behind; but she can sense a returning harshness to his entire demeanor. After he had rushed below deck earlier, he had returned looking grim and angry. But when Snow had gone down to check on her, her daughter was absolutely dead to the world. There was no way that she would be sleeping like that if she and the Captain had just had a fight. Maybe it was time for her to confront the Dark One with what she knew. Telling everyone would complicate matters, because despite not trusting him, they all still need his help if they are to be fighting against a god.

"I think Killian's plan solves several difficulties in the neatest way possible." He jolts slightly at hearing his true name coming from the lips of a woman other than Emma; she's taken to using it, but everyone else still prefers to think of him as Hook, as the pirate. "Regina? David? What do you think?"

Regina has had a far-away, contemplative look since her former mentor spoke, but she immediately responds to Snow's question. "As much as it pains me to say this, he's right. I couldn't stop the flames last night while Emma was dreaming; if she's awake, I can imagine her power and control will be much better. I'm good, but containing her abilities is beyond me. Leaving them behind is the best solution."

David takes a little longer to think after the Queen says her piece. He sees problems no matter which angle he looks at it. Strange as it may seem, he'd rather that _Jones_ stay behind with Emma. He may not be able to teach her anything magical, but he knows that the Captain would be able to keep her calm, would be able to persuade her that her staying on the ship was for the best. Based on what he saw last night, Charming _is_ certain that he _doesn't_ want to know exactly how Jones would convince her… But as much as it still pains him, his daughter is more than old enough to make those decisions on her own. On the other hand, a determined Emma who knows how to use her magic would be much more useful and safe for everyone in the long run. He heaves a sigh. "Agreed. Nothing is ideal, but it is the plan with the least amount of risks attached."

"Then it's settled. Best get to sleep, Your Majesties. We leave at dawn." Killian turns and marches out of the galley without another word to anyone. Snow and David both say goodnight and head to their cabin, holding hands and whispering to each other. Watching the royal couple conjures up images of Belle, causing an ache to spread into Rumplestiltskin's chest. He'll never get the chance to have that kind of closeness, that level of uncomplicated communion with his True Love. Not for lack of wanting, but because he knows that he is unlikely to survive this trip. One does not simply stroll up to a god and take someone back from them. One does not invade a deity's sanctuary and make demands. A man like him knows that there will be a devil's deal to be made, and he's determined to be the one to pay the price this time; it's the only honorable thing he can do to honor Bae's memory.

"I know you have something to say to me, Gold. You've been practically climbing the walls since the day before yesterday; so, why don't we cut to the chase? What do you want?"

"Now who says that I want _anything_ from you, Regina, that I can't manage to get on my own?"

"I may not be your equal when it comes to magic, but I have known you for quite some time. You've had a calculating gleam in your eye, every time you've looked at Hook this evening. Ever since you disappeared this afternoon, in fact. What happened between you and Emma?"

So clearly Snow White is not the only one to notice that something was off, both last night and today. "I was merely trying to impress upon the savior the extremity of my displeasure should a certain _captain_ be allowed near my grandson on a consistent basis. We disagreed on the details, but I'm sure she can be brought 'round to see reason. Or that he can."

Regina throws back her head and laughs, reminding him of her and her mother during their darkest days. "I'm not a fool, Rumplestiltskin. Even if I couldn't see beneath the surface of things… Our second night here, I tried to work my wiles on him. I'll admit now, as much from boredom as anything else. But then Emma knocked on the door and interrupted our conversation. I could see it all in his eyes. In the past, I would have scoffed at it as weakness, as exploitable. But if losing Henry has taught me anything, it's the preciousness, the fragile nature of life. I envy them their happiness, Gold, but I will not step in to destroy it. I want it for myself, the real thing—not the forced affection or begrudging respect that I took before. I deserve _my_ happy ending, but I have to prove that to myself as much as anyone else."

She stands, having spoken her piece. "I don't like him very much, and he hasn't yet earned my trust, but he is here, helping us. So help me, if you harm him or Emma there will be consequences. Of the divine variety. I will make it my mission in life to keep you wretched for the rest of your days, if you allow this pettiness to endanger Henry." She sweeps out of the galley and goes to her cabin. She appreciates the irony of the situation—she's fed Hook to the lions twice, but now she has placed him under her protection. She's also stood up to the most dangerous man in all the realms. But she also was completely honest with the Dark One. She knows that she has much to atone for, many wrongs to right; but she also wants to be loved for herself. Not the power of magic, not the power of royalty—Daniel had loved her simply because she was Regina. If it takes her years, the queen longs to be that kind of woman again. And the first step toward her is reclaiming her son.

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Killian wakes the royals before the sky even begins to change from dark to light. He wants to be off the ship without any incidents, without any confrontations with Emma—the princess. He's done so well about not saying her name aloud, but referring to her by her title is much harder when it's just him and his thoughts. All this night, he's refused to sleep, refused to touch a drop of rum; anything to prevent another dream where he can't hide how much he yearns for her. He's always had a mask, a wall to hide behind. Even with Milah, there were times when he could retreat into his persona as Captain, as pirate. Emma needs very little help to strip his soul bare, but those dreamscapes leave him and his feelings entirely vulnerable to her. He doesn't appreciate being at anyone's mercy, let alone that of a woman who must be using him only as a means of finding her son.

Without a word of complaint, David mans the oars of their lifeboat; it's not too far to shore for him to manage it alone and it would be ungentlemanly to ask one of the ladies to assist. The first rays of the sun strike the tops of the trees, bringing with it a riot of greens and other colors. "Before we begin, I've made copies of my charts for each of us. In the completely likely event that we become separated, all of us can hopefully navigate our way back. The forest itself is very treacherous, but the basic shape of the land never changes. This is our cove, here. I haven't marked it, in case one of us is captured, but memorize the location. Keep talking to a minimum. Our first stop is Lorelei Lagoon—think of them as semi-benign mermaids. They have an abhorrence of lies, so speak only the truth, and they will give you the truth in return. Also, bringing along a few gifts doesn't hurt either." Killian pulls a few hair combs and barrettes from the small satchel attached to his belt.

"They're typically harmless, vain little things. There's some more of these baubles in the kits I provided you all, but make sure not to take anything from them. The last time they gave a man something, he refused to return the loan and met a very unpleasant end." He nods once, then turns to enter the jungle. The others are surprised that he doesn't hack away at the fronds and vines blocking their path, but rather simply moves them out of the way. "The jungle is more alive than you might realize, Majesties. Best not to anger anything if we can help it. We are passing through here because the Shadow keeps eyes along the coast; we're safer from Him here, but there are many other dangers. Keep a weather eye out."

By silent agreement, Snow follows first, then Regina, and then David covering the rear of their group with his sword drawn. Killian curses his own stupid, gullible heart the moment they find themselves surrounded by verdant walls. He'd sworn never to return to this godsforsaken land, to this world where everything appears beautiful and delightful. No one has yet bothered to ask him about their food stores, but it's a conversation that he's all too willing to hold off on. The truth is that they technically don't need food or water here, but that won't stop their bellies from begging for it, eventually. They won't die of starvation or thirst—just pray that they could. But for now, that less than pleasant revelation is still in the future.

The younger queen has an arrow knocked on her bow, ready to defend them in a moment. He's only seen her in action the once, but her reputation as a markswoman has proceeded her. "Animals are few and far between, milady. Your better defense would be a blade." He whispers, but his voice carries easily. The trees start to thin out a bit, making it easier for David and Regina to clearly see the trail that Killian and Snow have been leading them on since they entered the jungle. But open spaces mean room for other things, so they all keep focused and alert.

"Up ahead, there's a field of blue flowers. They actually grow on a specific tree in sheets. It's about fifty meters across, we'll have to move fast and hold our breaths until you give us the all-clear, Prince. When you can't see them, then we can breathe again."

"I hate to ask the obvious question here, but why?" Regina plants her hands on her hips; Killian finds it amusing because it is a gesture that the queen would have despised in her pre-curse incarnation. Too masculine and brash, not at all seductive.

"Because, my dear. Unlike other plants, these flowers survive on oxygen. They suck up any breathable air and emit a poisonous gas. Were one so inclined, one could carefully collect this gas while still in its liquid form from the roots and stems; combined with a few other nasty chemicals, it makes quite the powerful poison, as the Crocodile well knows."

"How do you know how to do all this?! Make poisons and sleeping potions—were you a wizard in another life?"

"As much as I'd love telling my life story to the three of you, I believe we have a child who we should be locating. Yes? Suffice to say, my first captain ensured that I had a thorough education. Shall we move on?" Without waiting for anything further, Killian takes a deep breath. He can swim without surfacing for a good three minutes, but he'd rather not test his limits today. Once they get back, he's pretty certain that he'll be given hell by a very irate princess and will need all the energy he can spare. The first time he saw these particular flowers, he was struck by their beauty; now, they remind him of the corpse of a strangled man. The lily-like petals are the exact shade of blue that tints a man's lips when he's been deprived of air, which is why he named the _cyanids_. There are also tiny veins of red and purple near the petal's conjunction with the stem that resemble the broken blood vessels near the mouth when a person takes their last breath too long before actually dying.

He motions his hands for speed, constantly checking over his shoulder to make sure that his group is following. Once he makes it past the last of the "field", he ushers the women forward and silently urges Charming to go past him. With plenty of air still in his lungs, he confirms that there are no more _cyanids_ and gives everyone the signal to breathe. The three royals gasp for oxygen, none of them ever having needed to go without it to survive, obviously. He gives them five minutes to collect themselves before pressing on.

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Emma wakes as soon as light slips under the door of her cabin. She's not normally the up-and-at-'em, early-bird-gets-the-worm kind of person in the morning; but a full night of sleep has clearly refreshed her bodily. She still needs to sort through things with Killian; she's finally admitted to herself that the dreams they had about each other _were_ real, and so were all of the feelings. Apparently, Dreamscape allows you to see things more clearly, refuses to let you lie to yourself or hide behind the normal walls that you build to keep others out. When their dream of Storybrooke turned into a nightmare… Emma shudders as she remembers the endless hallway of doors and hearing Killian's screams of agony, his roars of pain, behind every single one. Only, once she had broken it down, the room had been empty, and his cries had come from further down the hall. And when she'd finally heard his voice telling her that he was alright, waking her up, and had seen him safe and sound with her own eyes; Emma had never felt so much happiness and peace and joy and, yes, love!

When she gets up out of her bunk, it's with fear and anxiety, but also hope. The future is always filled with risks, but in this moment, they are risks that she _wants_ to take. She bypasses the galley, strangely not hungry at all despite having slept through the afternoon and night yesterday. When she gets up on deck though, there's no one about. Killian isn't at the helm; her Mom and Dad aren't up in the rigging. And to make things worse, there's a semi-transparent red bubble surrounding the whole ship. "Ah! It's nice of you to finally grace me with your presence, Miss Swan."

The Dark One appears in a puff of dark crimson and purple smoke a few yards in front of her. Emma wraps her hands on the hilts of her dagger and sword, as a warning. "I thought you might be a little more cautious after our discussion yesterday. Where is everyone?"

"I'm afraid they've left to search the island without us. It seems that our captain was very concerned about the safety and well-being of our little company with a 'magical loose cannon' in our midst. I gallantly agreed to continue teaching you, so that you will not be a threat to the rest of us." He allows her to glare menacingly at him, knowing that she's listening for a lie. The shocked and saddened expression on her face, when she sees that he's not, fills him with delight. He smiles mockingly. "I was also tasked with preventing your escape, should you get it into your pretty little head to try and follow them. Now, as I thoroughly enjoy thwarting _Hook_ any way I can, let's see you break through my barrier spell. It's separate from the one for concealment, so you needn't worry about our whereabouts being broadcast to all and sundry."

Emma frowns, but focuses her will and emotions on the red bubble. Too late, she realizes that Rumplestiltskin intends on making her pay for the show of power and dominance yesterday. A fireball whizzes through the air near her head—she can hear the crackling roar and smell singed flesh. She pulls her improvised ponytail to the side, half of which is now a charred heap on the Jolly Roger's deck. "Tick tock, dearie. Tick tock."


	15. The Fight

**A/N: Portions of this chapter are rated M for Mature. If you can't figure out ****why**** the rating has changed, then you probably shouldn't be reading it. ;)**

Emma storms into Killian's room and slams the door shut behind her. "You are going to tell me right now who died and put you in charge. And then you are going to explain to me exactly why _YOU_ decided to leave me behind with Rumple-freaking-stiltskin while you and my parents and Regina went searching for _MY SON_!"

Killian slowly looks up from the charts on his desk, crossing his arms carefully. "I believe that you are forgetting that not only do I captain the Jolly Roger, I also own it. Therefore princess, any judgment to be made regarding the safety of said vessel and its crew falls directly under my purview. However, I simply made a suggestion which I then put to the crew."

"Except me! When I was the one most involved in the decision!" Her face is practically glowing with fury, but thankfully, her eyes are clear of magic. So far, she's managing to control her temper.

"You were the heart of the problem, yes. The choice was to leave you and Rumplestiltskin behind to protect the ship _and_ to allow you time to harness and hone your thus-far erratic abilities. Or, to allow you to come ashore with us and risk the safety of all involved, including your son. You have no control, as evidenced by what passed the night before last; if we had been attacked, which thank the gods we were not, would you have been able to help us with your powers? Think carefully before answering, princess. Can you, with one hundred percent certainty, tell me that you would have been an asset in a fight?"

Emma plants her fists on his desk and her eyes flash emerald. Once again, sparkles of jade and gold dance on the magically-driven windstorm now inhabiting his quarters. Maps and drawings scatter and float along on the whirling air currents, and his clothes and hair are tugged incessantly. But then the shimmers of color fall down to the floor, and the random odds and ends return themselves precisely to where they were before. "The Crocodile taught you a new trick, did he?"

"That man's idea of _teaching_ involved singeing off a good portion of my hair with a magical attack while I was trying to break through a barrier spell, and then making ME grow it back on my own! But I'm a fast learner, _Hook_, and self-discipline in all areas is something that I mastered long ago. I may not know specific spells, and I am operating a lot on instinct, but now that I know it's there, I can control it." She marches back the way she came.

Killian almost lets her get to the door, almost lets her leave, but his mouth gets him in trouble. "So thoroughly controlled, aren't we, Swan? So completely, ruthlessly calculating in order to get whatever your heart desires from a man."

She goes absolutely still, her voice low and barely audible. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

He stands up and stalks toward her, all thoughts of containing his rage forgotten. He stops until their faces are mere inches apart from each other. "It means I know, princess! I'm just a bloody tool to you, to the queen, to the whole lot of you! If there had been any other way to get to Neverland, you would have taken it! Rather than depend on a worthless, home-wrecking pirate! Someone you'd never want anything to do with!"

At the very end, Emma could have sworn that she saw a flash of silver light in his eyes, but she's so shocked by what he's said that she immediately forgets it. Anger overwhelms the astonishment. "You eavesdropped on…"

"I heard enough! You think that I'm just expendable. I'm a criminal who happens to be useful, for now. But the second my purpose has been fulfilled, you'll toss me away like yesterday's garbage."

"That's _not_ what I said to Gold! I was defending you, you idiot!"

"Since when does defending a man call for the recitation of a laundry list of his sins, princess?"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Why not? You already feel yourself so superior to me, why shouldn't I make you feel that much better about yourself, _princess_? I'm a liar and a thief, just like your precious Neal! _I've_ never pretended to be otherwise, and _I've_ never given you anything except respect as an adversary and then as my ally. But somehow he gets to touch you, while I'm lower than the dirt beneath your boots!"

"Yes, Neal was a thief when I met him, and so was I. And he got to do _a lot_ more than just touch me! I loved him, and I still love him. And he's the father of my son, and even though he's dead I'm thinking about him every second of every day of this godforsaken trip. And I've done absolutely nothing to make you think that I trust you, that you are my friend, that I care about you at all. And those dreams have all been a lie, just stupid fantasies I've had because I'm missing the man I _really_ love. And I'm just using you because that's what I do—manipulate people into doing whatever I want them to." Her voice oozes with sarcasm, but the part of him that's always doubted himself hears only the words, confirms the darkest of his fears. Tells him again just how unworthy he is.

"Get the hell out of my quarters, princess." Killian wearily turns to head back to his desk, when he finds his body slammed against the wall. He hears the glass bottles rattle against each other in their cabinet and looks down to find that the sparks of magic have returned.

"You don't get to decide who ends this conversation! I do! Do you know what he put me through after you left me this morning?"

Killian's voice goes deceptively soft. "What are you going to do, princess? Force me to do your bidding with your powers? You'll have to rip the heart from my chest to do it! Go ahead, give me another scar to go with the ones put there by Rumplestiltskin and Cora and every enemy who failed to kill me!"

Emma stumbles back as if he's slapped her, releasing him along with her magic. "What? Don't have the stomach to kill a man, lass? Or are you just afraid to get a lowly pirate's blood on your boots?" Without another word, she runs out of his room hand clutched over her mouth.

The sudden silence leaves him hollow and empty, like he feels inside when he contemplates a life without her in it. Emma Swan isn't some bright star flashing across his life—she's a warm fire, real and earthbound; she's the hope and happiness that makes surviving another cold night worthwhile. And he just chased her out of his door and out of his life. With a sad, yet determined sigh, he goes back to his desk to collect the charts he came down for in the first place. When he returns topside, the princess is nowhere in sight. On the surface, at least, his life has returned to the way it is supposed to be—uncomplicated, with just him and his ship and the seas.

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Snow isn't sure what exactly what causes it. She was talking with Rumplestitlskin, updating him on what little happened on their first trek to the island's interior, when she felt a sort of tug in the pit of her stomach. She likens it to the finer instincts she honed while living off the land in the Enchanted Forest, a warning twinge that something has disturbed the equilibrium around her. It isn't fear, as if she's being hunted, but rather like the silence that falls when any large predator lurks nearby.

It had taken them the better part of the day to reach Lorelei Lagoon, but once they reached the little inlet there was not a single creature to be found. Not even the bits and baubles that they had strewn over the water had drawn one of them up to the surface. Either the Lorelei had relocated, or Pan had gotten word out that strangers were not to be aided. Other than finding more fields of _cyanids_, and David coming into contact with Neverland's version of poison ivy, their return trip had been relatively painless and unenlightening.

After finishing the conversation, she notices that her daughter isn't up with the rest of the crew and probably hasn't heard about their excursion. After a very short search, she finds her sitting on her bunk, staring at the floor in front of her. The whole set of her body tells Snow that there's a problem. Emma's not usually the type for quiet introspection, further evidence that something is going on. The next words she hears confirm it. "Mom, how did you know? How did you know that Dad was the one?" She looks small and lost for the first time in quite a while, and her mother's heart goes out to her. Sitting down carefully next to her daughter, Snow reaches up to brush the hair back from Emma's face.

"I didn't, honey, not at first. You know, the very first time I actually met your father, it was because I had stolen and pawned something of his. Something he couldn't just forget and leave behind." She plays with her wedding ring, eyes unfocused as she remembers all that happened that day. "And even when I knew that I loved him, there was never any guarantee that he felt the same about me. I had to take a leap of faith, and every day, I am so glad that when I did, he was there to catch me."

Without another word, Snow kisses her daughter on the head and walks out of the cabin, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts and a decision.

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Emma eventually finds herself in the captain's cabin, waiting to confront a pirate. The dreams she's been having about him, the way he's been making her body come alive and her soul soar _on another plan of existence_—she has to know whether any of it is real or not. It would be easier for her to pretend that she almost kissed him because she wants to feel something good for a change, instead of despair. It would be easier if he didn't always look at her like a treasure he's never expected to find. It would be easier if she _really_ loved Neal and could hold onto his memory while she found their son. It would be easier if Killian really were the ruthless scoundrel he pretends to be. It would be easier if they couldn't understand one another, couldn't read the other's thoughts and emotions without consciously meaning to… But when has life ever made things easy for either of them?

And her magic has decided to complicated matters. She can feel him all the time now, even when she mad at him for being right. Her unpredictable powers have tied them, bound them together in ways that she can't understand; somehow, he can reach her when no one else can, in ways that no one else can, so that without him to anchor her… How can she ever truly hope to control her abilities, so long as she keeps hiding from the very things that will make her stronger? That will make _them_ stronger. If she can't open herself up to love and faith and trust, then what is she even doing here in Neverland? Emma has never been this afraid before, except for when Henry lay dying in the hospital. She's never had so much to prove, so much forgiveness to ask, or so much to lose. She adopts a casual pose, booted feet propped up on Killian's desk, sitting in his chair. She can hear him moving around on deck overhead, a slight limp still audible in his step from the injuries Greg's car gave him. She doubts that anyone else is aware of it anymore except her, attuned as she is to everything about Killian Jones. She knows that he's doing his best to avoid her, trying to stall above deck long enough to circumvent her plan to finish what they started. But she's waited to open up for so long that a few minutes' more patience will hardly kill her.

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Killian holds out for as long as he can, hoping that by now exhaustion will have claimed her and that he can go to his cabin to find some peace. All he wants is to upend an entire bottle of brandy and for a few moments forget about Emma bloody Swan. But he realizes when he opens his door that clearly the gods have a sense of humor, or fortune is no longer with him. She may be dressed like a simple pirate, but her presence is commanding and regal and it draws him as powerfully as iron to a magnet. He should be furious that she has invaded his space like this, but she looks so natural and at ease here. It is a struggle to find any menace or anger with which to fill his words. "You don't belong in here, princess. These are pirates' quarters."

She barely twitches at the scorn in his voice, having expected him to fire a direct shot. But he doesn't realize that she's not here to fight, so nothing could have prepared him for the note of pleading he hears when she speaks. "Please Killian, we need to talk."

His first impulse is to tell her that he will do whatever it takes to never hear her sound defeated and vulnerable like she does now. But he firmly ignores that sniveling voice, plants his hand on the desk, and leans over threateningly. "Do we? About what? What possible topic of conversation could be of interest to you and I? Because the last time we talked, lass, you seemed to make it abundantly clear that I was the last person you ever wanted to speak with again! Now, pardon me for taking a royal lady at her word, but I don't have time for any more of your games, princess. I plan on getting piss-drunk, then going to sleep. Now, leave before I forget all sense of courtesy and decorum."

He turns away, doing his best to act as if he is ignoring her. But when he opens the wine cabinet, he almost grabs the second cup; has it really only been a week of nights spent drinking and talking with Emma? And already he's picked up the habit of expecting her to join him? Frustrated with himself, he leaves the cups where they are, uncorks the bottle with his teeth, and manages a healthy swallow before she takes it away from him.

"I'm sorry. Not because you overheard something that you shouldn't have; I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I was angry and hurt because you wouldn't listen to me. You wouldn't let me explain what… And I…I'm not good at…" Emma stumbles and trips over her words, but the fact that he won't look her in the eyes makes her stuttering worse. "Oh, hell." She grabs his face between her hands and is kissing him before he has time to protest. And then his tongue is preoccupied with hers and all rational thoughts escape his brain. But he does nothing more than kiss her, too shocked and uncertain for any other action. Still terrified of being hurt and rejected, she pulls his body in to hers.

Killian lets out an honest to god growl before pushing her away. "Damnit, lass! I told you I'm done!" His fury is now a hot, palpable thing, and she knows that she deserves every bit of it. But with so much between them on the line, she knows that she needs to do more than just stand her ground with him; immediately, she's invading his personal space again and grasping his lapels.

"Well, I'm not done with you, Jones!" Emma plasters herself to his front, trying but unable to wrap one of her legs around his before he pushes her away again. "What the hell, Killian?" He drives her back against the wall and locks his arms to keep her away from him.

"Gods damnit! I'm not a bloody saint, love! And a man's resolve to play the gentleman only stretches so far! I won't have you throwing fucking excuses in my face, lass, about needing comfort and then it all being a mistake. The ache I feel for you—it's real, it's agonizing, love. Every damn second of every day of this voyage has been torture, wanting you and knowing that you're pining after a stupid git who didn't even know what a damn fool he was to ever let you go. And you're allowing that dead man to stand between whatever is happening with you and me. So don't test me on this, Swan, because when I bloody well _do_ kiss you in this reality, it won't fucking end until I have you in my bed, and it will be because you can't stand existing without me anymore!" His grip on Emma's shoulder gets tighter and tighter, and she winces at his words and the fact that his hook has started digging into her skin. But his anger is worlds away better than apathy.

"So, go on then—keep telling yourself that it was all just dreaming and see how well it warms your bed at night. Now I suggest you sober up, Swan, or by the gods!..." She puts her fingertips softly against his lips to stop his ranting and stares directly into his eyes, so he can read hers and know that this is _not_ the rum talking.

"If I had been drinking, I would have picked the lock and left the cabinet wide open. Just so I could rub it in. Just so I could taunt you with it." Her voice is a soft whisper, a breathy purr that promises to blur the line between pain and pleasure with him. She marvels at just how warm and sensual the skin of his lips feels under her touch, practically guarded as it is by the roughness of his beard. She slowly glides her hand down his chin and neck before her fingers curl around his linen shirt into a tight fist. With a gentle but purposeful pull, she draws him closer. Her other hand, which has stayed motionless at her side until now, travels up over his chest to wrap around the back of his neck. Time both leaps forward and crawls, so that he has no clue how she's managed to draw his head down to hers.

Her body and forehead are pressed tight against him when their lips brush feather-light—gentle, almost phantom kisses, yet still sure touches of skin on skin. Just like what's been happening in their dreams, both reality and fantasy bleeding indistinguishably together. Clinging to the shreds of his anger, he snaps back, grabbing her wrists and trapping them between their bodies. "Not like you to be such a tease, lass. Go on back to your cabin before it's too late to run away from my wicked intentions. I'm not your Neal, and I've no desire to compete with his ghost." He releases her, almost violently, dropping her hands and turning his back on her. She watches his shoulders rise harshly with his breathing and wonders if he truly believes what he just said.

She walks around him to the door of his cabin, almost ready to leave him, a heartbeat away from ready to run away again. And in that blindingly clear instant, Emma realizes that she's tired of running from what she wants, from what she needs. She puts her back to the door, slips her hand behind her, and locks it. "You know, a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets… Killian." Rage sparks instantly, visible in the vibrating stillness of his body before he springs around. He closes the distance between them so quickly, her eyes barely see the movement. And then she's pinned to the door with his hook planted into the wood right next to her cheek.

His voice has gone deceptively soft, a quiet fury like when he had her trapped in Rumplestiltskin's jail cell. "Do I bloody look like a man unwilling to fight, Emma?"

"No, you don't, but I've been trying to tell you that you don't have to fight—that there's no one _to_ fight. Not me. Not anyone else. _My ghost_, he isn't standing here between us and never has been; what about yours?" His body becomes no less tense, and, if anything, his gaze burns brighter and is more piercing.

"Enough with the word games, lass. Say what you want."

"I want you to kiss me, Killian." She barely gets his name out before his lips are crushed against hers. Like everything else between them, this kiss is a struggle, a fight, a pleasurable argument. Only this time, neither one loses, and both win. She can't breathe because of the fierceness of their passion, but then she doesn't really want to. He reaches down with his hook, snags the leg that has been rubbing against his, and wraps it around his waist. She breaks first, gasping for air as he trails his lips and tongue to her throat. He moans her name against her skin as he tastes it for the first time—sunshine, peaches, and cream. She hops up, wrapping her other leg around him, willing him to take her to bed. Her silent method of communication works—she sways backward slightly when he pulls her away from the wall before anchoring herself more firmly by spearing her hands through his hair.

For all the violence of their kiss, he's gentle when he lays her down on his sheets. His hand all but whispers along her leg before gently grasping her ankle. He pulls back far enough to quickly shed his coat, then grabs her boot and gives it a leisurely tug. His eyes never leave hers as he starts to strip away one piece of clothing at a time. After her boots hit the floor, he pulls her in for more hot, open-mouthed kisses as he works off her vest and shirt. In these moments, when he uncovers her body for the first time, she finally understands the meaning of the phrase to be _consumed_ by passion. Killian Jones looks like a starving man who's had a feast spread out before him. She catches his eyes, blushing at what she sees there and looking away.

He wraps his left arm around her waist, pinning her more closely to him, and uses his good hand to cup her chin. He makes her look up at him, forces her eyes to his. "So beautiful. There aren't enough words in all the languages in all the realms to do any sort of justice to you, lass. You are thoroughly, indescribably beautiful." Another kiss sparks between them and another and another. He swears that he can see bursts of light behind his eyes. He shivers when he feels her hands slip over his partially bared chest and onto his shoulders. He pulls back from her, terrified.

She knows immediately what's wrong. _You're afraid to reveal yourself, to trust me_. His words from the beanstalk echo in her memory, and she knows with sudden clarity that she's not the only one who has been trying to run away from something more between them. She closes the distance again, gently cradling his face in her hands. "Shh. Please, Killian. Trust me. Let me see you. I have to see you." His entire body jerks as if stung and his eyes fill up with questions and wonder. He looks so adorable when confused that Emma can't resist a smile, or a soft kiss to his open mouth. "Please."

He swallows harshly, throat suddenly tight. Of course, she would be different; of course she would want the same naked honesty from him that he is asking of her. Killian pulls her close and rests his forehead against hers, shutting his eyes as if he can block out the painful truth. "It isn't… No one has ever…" Emma's heart constricts viciously in her chest at the thought of his suffering, making her more determined to show him what she feels when she sees him. She moves only her hands, catching the edges of his shirt with her thumbs and sliding her fingers down his arms. She knows that the leather belts begin just below his elbow, so she is carefully deliberate when she brushes the skin of his forearms.

She places another gentle kiss against his lips, willing him to trust her with his secrets. She finally looks down at his left arm—she's seen it before, when he was in the hospital after being run over; but this time he's fully conscious and he's _letting_ her see. A belt is secured at the top of his forearm, with straps running down either side attached to the piece that secures his hook in place. Instead of looking into his eyes, she focuses on the skin of his arm; as she unbuckles and releases the leather, she alternately massages deeply and brushes lightly with her fingertips along the well-developed muscles, eliciting a moan of pleasure from him. The puckered burn scars receive her attention as well, and not for the first time, Emma wonders if he knows just how magnificent every inch of him is. He sees only flaws and damage; she sees strength and the will to survive.

"This is a part of who you are, Killian. Not the hook itself, but the stubborn refusal to give up. Never be ashamed of that. Or of this." She places gentle kisses along skin that no one else has ever seen, much less touched before.

"Gods, but you deprive a man of his sense, Emma love." He pulls their bodies flush again and cups her chin, letting himself drown in her stormy sea-green eyes. "Are you sure that this is what you want?"

She smiles before sweeping her leg behind his, knocking him off of his feet and onto the bed. "About that 'always being a gentleman'… Now would be a good time to stop." His response dies on his lips when Emma shimmies out of the leather pants and crawls up over him. The look in his eyes reminds her that the hotter stars, the hottest flames burn blue. And then she finds herself pinned beneath him, quickly tangling her legs with his.

"As my princess commands." He rocks his hips towards hers, rubbing his still-covered length against her ultra-sensitized skin. His lips and teeth latch on to one of her nipples, tugging roughly before he swipes across it with his tongue. Emma can't hold back her startled gasp, nor can she stop her body from arcing up into his. Whimpers and moans of pleasure, of impatience tumble past her lips along with his name and a few curses. She can feel his smile against her lower belly. "All in due time, love. This is something I've been yearning to do for a long, long, long…" A kiss punctuates his every word and takes him further down. Emma can't help but scream his name, can't stop her entire body from arcing off of the bed as his mouth closes down on her and his tongue sweeps inside.


	16. Inferno

**A/N: This entire chapter is rated M for Mature… You're welcome. ;)**

His imagination, the dreams he's had about her—nothing could do justice to the reality that is Emma Swan. She tastes like heaven, and she feels like home. Killian revels in the way her body reacts to every nip, every suck, every swipe of his tongue; as if it's making up for all of the barriers and walls that she used to keep him out with. He'd gladly spend hours just like this, bombarding her with pleasure, but the fingers tangling in his hair start to dig in uncomfortably to get his attention. "Killian, please. I need you now. I want you. With me." He can't hide the smile that breaks across his entire face at hearing her say his name in that breathy, panting, begging whimper.

With a final flick of his tongue, that sends another rippling shiver up her spine, he crawls back up her body. "What is it you need, Emma love? What is it you want, darling?" He hisses then moans when one of her hands slips between them and firmly grasps the base of his shaft; her other slips down his back, fingernails trailing down then digging in sharply when they reach his ass. He opens his eyes and finds himself staring into a glowing green whirlpool.

"Only you. I need _you_, Killian. I only want you." He doesn't care what sort of spell he's under, doesn't care what sort of magic she wields; in this moment, his entire world crumbles into dust before their shared desires. Killian Jones. Captain Hook. Both of the men he has been up to this point cease to exist, destroyed by fire. He gathers her closer in his arms, gets up on his knees, and pulls her up with him. Her legs wrap even tighter around his waist and her arms curl around his back, as Killian reaches down to touch her. He slips two fingers inside her, and Emma throws her head back on a frustrated moan.

His usual smirk is gone, but there is a dark hunger in his smile that Emma knows instinctively. "So eager for your ravishment, princess… Look at me, love. Show me those beautiful eyes." The feel of him brushing just outside of her entrance causes those same eyes to roll back into her head; unexpectedly, he shakes her roughly. "Look at me, Swan." The dominance, the command in his voice is both unmistakable and irresistible. The second she obeys, Killian flexes his hips and fills her completely. "Gods! Emma!" Together they start a rolling motion that unconsciously echoes the ship, the ocean, the tides, coming together as they are falling apart.

The dreams that had been so full of sensation, of passion are nothing by comparison, despite being just as real. Emma is so overwhelmed by how amazing Killian feels that she swears she's ready to explode with every inch of friction, every thrust. She forces herself to whisper so that she doesn't scream. "Is this even happening? Is this a dream, Killian? Am I dreaming?"

"This is as real as it gets, Emma love. _You_ are not dreaming. _I_ am not dreaming. _We_ are not dreaming." He slows their pace, drawing almost completely out of her, before thrusting back in. She bites her lip on a whimper, her walls contracting so hard around his cock that he almost comes for her right then. He reaches around his neck for her left hand and, linking their fingers together, places her hand on his chest directly above his rapidly beating heart. "You feel that, darling? What you do to me? There's nothing further from dreaming." With aching gentleness, Killian lowers her back on the bed, never once leaving her. He worships her body: lips dancing across every inch of skin he can reach, following the flush of heat that's spreading itself along her body. Her hips keep time with his, effortlessly matching every change in depth and pace, content to let him take control. For now. She has no idea how close she is, until with a gentle touch, with the merest hint of pressure on her tightly-wound nerves he sends her spiraling.

She could swear that she literally sees the stars winking down at them from the black velvet sky, that all the planets in all the galaxies of the universe swirl and wink at them from the ceiling. Then all she sees is Killian raised above her, kissing her hair and forehead and nose before returning to brush across her lips. She can still feel him, hard as hot steel inside her, and he laughs as her mouth turns down in an adorable pout. "You didn't…"

He kisses away her words and frown—another hot, open-mouthed duel. "What sort of scoundrel do you take me for, lass? Don't you worry your pretty head, darling. When I _do_, there will be no doubts in your mind just how thoroughly ravished you've been."

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_ Emma stands like sea-facing cliffs—solid and unshakeable in the midst of a hurricane. Magic swirls around her and darts of colored flame flash back and forth between her and the Dark One. Killian stand behind a solid wall of air, another maelstrom that she has conjured to protect him and from which he can't escape. He throws himself against his invisible cage, screaming at her to stop defending him and focus on herself, but her shield around him never waivers._

_ A bolt of purple light and a swirl of indigo smoke appear behind her. When the magic finishes its work, a dagger hovers in mid-air—aimed straight at Emma's back. Killian redoubles his efforts, his voice cracking on her name, but he can do nothing. Somehow aware of her danger, she turns away from the Dark One and swipes her hand across her body, knocking the weapon away. Her distraction is enough to be her undoing. Rumplestiltskin disappears in a puff of red smoke, then reappears in front of Emma. Killian's fury knows no bounds as her heart is ripped from her body, and his prison vanishes. He catches her in his arms, begging her to stay._

_ "Gods, no! Emma, he can't do this to us! Stay with me, love! I need you!"_

_ Her smile is pained, but bright. "Always, for you, my love." She brings up her hand and wipes a tear away with her thumb. She turns her face to kiss the palm that's cupping her cheek. "Don't worry—I know you'll find me again." She slips away, the fire leaving her bright green eyes. There is no rage, only emptiness and defeat as the Dark One scatters the ashes of her heart to the wind. Killian whispers a prayer to any god who's listening and gently kisses Emma; her lips have already gone cold, and no magic springs to life between them._

" '_Fraid that won't work for you just yet, dearie!" Rumplestiltskin vanishes once more, and Killian's crew drags him away from Emma's body. He's screaming at them, thrashing and fighting, trying to get back to her side. Snow and Charming are suddenly there, holding each other and weeping, watching over their daughter as the dwarves place her in a glass coffin. He continues to struggle as his crew holds him down; Smee approaches the group, looking positively hangdog, and carrying a red hot dagger._

_ "Apologies, Captain, but it must be done." Killian's screams become one long, continuous roar of pain as fire crawls up his arm and the stench of his own burning flesh reaches his nose._

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"Killian!" Emma punctuates her exasperated yell with an open-handed slap, finally releasing him from his nightmare. His eyes are absolutely panicked, pupils practically swallowing the blue. His arms reach around her, pulling her into a frighteningly tight embrace. He's breathing harshly, like he's been trying to outrun the devil himself, but he has his ear pressed right up against her breast, obviously listening to her heartbeat. Whatever he was dreaming about has him entirely petrified with fear. "Ssshhh! Hey. It's alright. I've got you, Killian. Ssshhh! It's okay."

Though she's never held anyone like this, she seems to know exactly what he needs from her right now. She instinctively uses her touch to soothe him, running the fingers of her left hand through his hair and her right over every bit of skin that she can reach. She rocks with him, gently, because she's so afraid to startle him, so afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. So she kisses his temple and keeps telling him over and over that she's there with him. Gradually, his trembling stops and his breathing becomes normal again. But before she can process this change enough to pull away, he has her pinned on the bed and is kissing her ravenously.

"Gods, Emma! I need you, lass. Please don't leave me." The absolute vulnerability, the fragility of his voice shocks and terrifies her. She pushes his chest, forcing him to reveal his eyes to her; they are filled with an agony that she recognizes, but doesn't understand the source of. She knocks his right arm from under him and uses her legs to roll him onto his back, quickly straddling him.

"Killian, look at me." She pushes his chest down when he tries pulling her back to him. "No! You look at me, Killian Jones! I don't know what your dream was about, and unless you want to tell me, I really don't care. Now listen very carefully: I am not leaving. I'm scared out of my mind because of the things you make me feel, the things you make me want. But I promise you that I will not be running away from you. Ever again. You wanted me, Jones? Well, now you're stuck with me! So deal with it!"

She finally lets him go, sits up, and crosses her arms across her chest. She's all but daring him to contradict anything she's said. Killian rubs his hand over his eyes, then sits up, running his hand along her back. "By all the gods, princess, what have I ever done to deserve you?" Emma's stiff posture relaxes and she slips her hands down to run over his chest.

Her lips start twitching, until a smile lights up her face. Suddenly, she starts laughing. It's one of the most beautiful and rarest sounds in his world, and he knows that he will never tire of finding ways to hear it. "Care to share in the joke, love?"

"Oh, I was just thinking that there's probably a minor deity or two that you've offended." He looks prepared to scold her, but a quick roll of her hips obliterates all thought. She initiates the kiss this time—slow, lazy, commanding brushes of her tongue against his. He didn't think that he could get any harder, that his need could become any sharper, but his Emma demands this response from him. She breaks away, gently pushing his chest away this time, and guiding his cock inside her.

His usual smirk appears as he folds his arms underneath his head and quickly tilts his hips up to meet hers. "Mmmm…Remind me to offer a libation to whichever one decided on you as my punishment, lass."


	17. First Dawn

**A/N: Rating is in the T+ to M range at the beginning; then back to T.**

"Why did you do it, lass? Why did you take the Crocodile to New York and help him search for Baelfire?" Killian traces random scenes on her back with his fingertips, just enjoying the simple pleasure of touching her skin. They are lying on their sides facing each other, heads mere inches apart across the pillows. It's a game of sorts that they've played in the night, asking whatever questions come to mind. She can't know that he's heard the answer from her father already; he just wants to know, to hear from her lips exactly how long she's loved him without ever intending to.

Emma sighs, her thoughts spinning through her brain and unintentionally broadcasting themselves to him through her eyes. "Well, if I had to pinpoint the beginning to that story, it all started with Ashley, or Cinderella, I guess. Back in our world, she made a deal with Rumplestiltskin—her chance for a better life for a favor, and he chose to take her firstborn. When the curse hit, she was still pregnant; and then not long after I came to town, and time started up again, the baby was born. I couldn't let him do it; I couldn't let him break apart a family that wanted to be together. So, I promised him that I would owe him that favor instead, if he would let Ashley and Sean keep their little Alexandra."

She looks down as she tells that part of the story, but after a deep breath, she looks back into his eyes and continues. "And then you showed up, thwarting his plans to go searching for Neal. I have no idea how, Killian, but he _knew_. In less than a minute, he knew that I wouldn't stand by and watch you get killed; he knew that seeing you bleeding on the side of the road and acting as if I didn't care was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my whole life. I don't know how much you remember from the hospital, but I was more concerned about hiding you from him than anything else. I guess that a part of me knew exactly what was wrong and told me not to worry." She wiggles her fingers and lets a few sparks fly off; his skin tingles pleasantly where they land, and he leans over just enough to brush a kiss along her shoulder. Her whole body shivers, both with pleasure at the touch of his lips on her skin and with pain echoing back from her memories.

"You have no idea… I watched them the entire time they took your x-rays and ran your blood work. Then I insisted that they load your IVs with pain meds, because I knew I'd have to ask about Cora and that you'd be a smart-ass. I stayed in that hospital waiting room all night, not because of Greg… Whale could have called me with an update at any time, but I didn't trust that Rumplestiltskin wouldn't go looking for you. And after I made sure he was gone, I thought it would be okay—that I could leave you there and that you'd be safe." He can't hold back the pleased, yet amazed grin, and Emma ducks her head down in embarrassment. Killian slips his fingers underneath her chin, forcing her to look at him again. Once he has her attention, he kisses the very tip of her nose in thanks. Unfortunately, her smile doesn't last very long as she continues.

"But then, he showed up at our door, demanding that I fulfill the bargain I made with him immediately. And if I didn't… He said that if I didn't, that he would find you and kill you." Emma's left hand, which has been resting on his hip, smoothes up over his ribs and his chest, finally resting over his heart. "He didn't even need to threaten my family, although he did do that next. So, I agreed just so I could get him the hell out of town, and it had nothing to do with me being the sheriff. It wasn't about protecting the town, preventing a crime, or upholding the law. I didn't do it because I owed him a favor, or because it was the right thing to do… He knew, before I could even think the words to myself, that I love you, Killian. He knew that I'd walk through fire and make deals with the devil just to keep you safe."

He pulls her closer and kisses her forehead, breathing in the light, sweet fragrance that's naturally hers. "It's hard to top something like that, lass. Shall I go on some grand quest so that I may adequately prove my undying affection for you?" A playful smirk, less flirtatious and more genuine when it's only the two of them, brightens his features and lightens the suddenly somber mood between them. Emma rolls her eyes and smiles at his flair for the dramatic, but then finds herself drifting again into his ocean eyes.

"Now that we've finally stopped lying to ourselves, you want to go off on an adventure without me? Not a chance, pirate! I just want you to stay right here with me. The fact that you volunteered to come, that you are helping me find and save my son is all the proof I need. I knew that I could really trust you the moment I saw yours ship coming back toward the docks. And then the second you heard that Henry was in danger, you stood up. That means more to me than any romantic speeches or grand gestures ever could. Hmmm… My turn…" She frowns a little bit, as if thinking.

"I'm not going to fancy this question am I?"

"Probably not, but then I didn't like answering yours. Especially when I know that my Dad already told you how Gold got me out of Storybrooke." Killian looks thoroughly shocked, embarrassed, and as apologetic as a naughty school boy caught running in the halls.

"Bloody grounds for court martial that is!" Emma laughs, sliding her upper body along his and pinning him down when he pretends like he's going to get up.

"The whole no-one-can-lie-to-Emma thing, remember? My question is, why did you let Rumplestiltskin beat you? Belle told me what happened on the ship, before the incident at the town line. He wasn't using magic, and all things being equal, you'd win. Why?" She stares directly into his eyes, willing him to tell her. Killian's throat constricts harshly. He despises this question; he'd been hoping she'd forgotten about that, or better still, not heard about it at all.

"Lass, you have to understand… I'd been living in a dark, lonely hell for 878 years. I'd been thwarted time and again in my quest for vengeance. And then, just when it was finally in sight, I met a woman who instantly saw me. Not a cripple, not a captain, not a pirate—she saw the man beneath all that and pierced me to my very soul. And the moment that she held a blade to my throat, I knew that if I could spend the rest of my days with her…well, then I might have something worth living for. However, not only was she a princess, not only was she a fighter, not only was she a survivor like me… but she had never let herself be tainted by true evil. She was so far beyond my reach, and I desired her any way.

"I wanted that light and beauty and goodness for myself, but I believed that it was just a fool's dream. My love had been killed long ago, and the only woman in centuries who was capable of bringing me back to life might as well have been a star in the sky. I had no hope left. So I taunted my foe, gave him every opportunity to end my miserable existence, and yet he spared me. I wanted the oblivion of death. I wanted to end all of the suffering and misery that I felt and that I had caused. I would gladly have died on that road, Emma love. Until I saw you. You held me there before you even touched me. Without you, there was only madness and darkness; but with you, lass? Life with you will make it all worthwhile."

Killian places his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together. "I won't make you any empty promises, darling. But as long as you'll have me, as long as you want me, I'll be fighting for you. By your side, at your back, or guarding your life with mine—I am yours, Emma love. Body, soul, and sword belong to you. Enough talk for now, lass." He kisses the backs of her fingers and then the tip of her nose again, then slips his arm around her back to pull her closer to him. He runs his hand along her skin in soothing circles, watching her slowly relax. Finally, his eyes drift shut and his last conscious thought is how comfortably perfect this moment feels.

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Pre-dawn light peeks into his cabin, waking Killian Jones from the best night's sleep he's had in centuries. But this day brings with it more than insubstantial dreams, or vivid, all too real nightmares; this morning has brought with it hope, made physically manifest in the form of the woman still sleeping in his arms. Through the night, neither has been able to fully let the other go, now that they have taken the first steps toward grasping all that they can be together. Emma's head is tucked down by his left shoulder, her nose and every breath lightly tickling his collarbone. Her right hand is curled up near her chin, unconsciously resting right above his heart; her left is slung over his waist and occasionally, her fingers flex as if reassuring her unconscious mind that he's still there with her. Their legs are also tangled together, as if they could not bear to be other than intertwined, even while asleep. Moving so slowly and with the utmost gentleness and care, Killian glides his fingertips from her hip, up her back, and to her hair.

He's always been more than a little fascinated by her long, feminine curls. Emma may present a tough exterior to the world, but it's as if a fundamental part of herself has dared, has challenged others to seek the beauty hidden among the thorns. Killian laughs to himself at the thought that he'll never be able to _say_ something like that to her. There's more than one reason why their little game was the longest conversation they've ever had. She distrusts words—not just from him, but from everyone. For years, he has used pretty speeches and flowery declarations as masks to hide behind, to manipulate, to deceive. The ultimate irony of his life is that he has found the one woman almost entirely immune to his charming avowals, and she deserves them all and more. Emma Swan will prove to be the greatest adventure of his life, because he will never be able to stop discovering ways to _show_ her how much she means to him.

He feels the hitch and increase in her breathing across his skin and knows that she's beginning to wake. He keeps his voice as soft and low as possible. "It's barely dawn, princess. Go back to sleep. Let me watch over you for a bit longer." He kisses the top of her head, breathing in her scent as he does so. He feels her lips press against the skin of his collarbone as she mumbles something incoherent.

"Beg pardon, lass?" His chuckle transforms into a hiss of pleasure as her foot caresses his leg and the back of his knee. He's never thought of them as being particularly sensitive to touch or feminine attention, but then it has been quite a while.

"I said, watching doesn't usually involve so much running of your hand over my ass, Killian." Her morning voice is a low purr that vibrates all the way through his body, and the sound and feel of it erases all gentlemanly thoughts and inclinations from his mind. He rolls them both, rising above her and pinning her on her back to the bed. Her eyes are still closed, but she smirks when she hears him moan. Her feet and legs are continually, sinuously gliding along his, and he can't help his body's way of telling her just how amazing it feels. She finally peeks out at him from behind her lashes: he's resting on his elbows, but his head is thrown back, eyes closed as he savors what she's doing to him. Only when she touches him, grips him firmly in her hand and positions him at her entrance does she see the dark cerulean of his eyes.

In one smooth move, he grips her leg to wrap around his hip, swoops down for a kiss, and thrusts home inside her. Emma can't hold back the low whimper of combined pleasure and pain at the feel of him; in so many ways, she doesn't know how her body and soul have survived this. He pulls back, startled and concerned. "Gods, Emma love! I'm so sorry! I never thought to hurt you." She can see that he's ready to back away, to leave if that's what she needs, and her heart slams painfully against her chest. She brings her other leg up and locks her ankles behind his back.

"Don't you even _think_ about leaving this bed, Killian Jones! The only way you can really hurt me is if you stop." She cups his cheek and brushes her thumb across, her eyes pleading with him to stay. He leans into her touch and kisses her palm before settling back over her. Their gazes never break, his filled with a sort of wondering desire and hers all but begging.

"I am, as always, my princess' humble, obedient, modest servant." He feels her smile where their lips meet and her chuckle all along his body. He moves inside her in a slow, steady rhythm, while they share hot, open-mouthed kisses. Gradually, they migrate and explore—nipping at earlobes, licking along the column of the other's neck, kissing pulse points—discovering and eliciting passionate responses from each other. If last night was an inferno, this morning is the slow, steady burn of a fuse; there will be earth-shattering percussions at the end, but the path to this explosion will be almost torturous in its meandering pace.

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Killian watches her get dressed from the comfort of their sleep-mussed bed; and yes, he finds no longer thinks of it as being his alone. No words or declarations or questions need to be uttered before gods and men—he belongs to her, body and soul, and she is finally his. _My Princess. My Emma_. Which reminds him of something. "I have something for you, lass."

Emma looks over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised and a smirk on her lips. "Is there another…attachment you want to introduce me to?" Minus the accent, her imitation of him is so spot-on that he can't stop himself from laughing. He gets up and crosses over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Such a filthy mind, Emma love! Wherever do you come up with such wanton, brazen notions?" He gives her a quick peck on her cheek and squeezes her a bit tighter, before letting her go and heading towards his desk. "Once we discovered that you would indeed need magical training, I remembered an item that I acquired many years ago."

Killian reaches behind and underneath the drawer, depressing a button that opens a compartment that sits almost flush to the floor. Inside is a green, leather-bound book that hasn't seen the light of day in centuries, yet there's not a speck of dust on it. "I rescued this from a loutish, illiterate member of my crew. I figured that I could at least use it for a log… However, once I saw the cover and the frontispiece, I knew that I had stumbled across something completely invaluable. Unfortunately, I was being a bit boorish yesterday. However, since we have come to an accord on certain matters thanks to your creative techniques in the art of persuasion…"

He places the book in Emma's hands, then wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her back against his chest. She looks at him over her shoulder, noting again how bright his smile is when he's relaxed and just being himself. She lifts an eyebrow skeptically, but flips open to a random page and finds it blank. A rapid scan reveals that every single leaf of the journal is completely free of writings, drawings, or any other markings. He kisses her neck before reaching toward the book in her hands, opening it again to the front. "Ok, sailor, what am I supposed-?" Suddenly, a swirl of ink spreads along the page, colors and words forming in front of her surprise-widened eyes.

"According to legends, a true sorcerer or a powerful, benevolent witch always casts an enchantment over their most prized spell books. Their magics are far more powerful, and in the wrong hands are far more dangerous. I don't know how the pirate whose ship we took got his hands on this, but for some reason, I kept it. Which is all to our advantage as it turns out. I don't trust the Crocodile, lass, and it's not just because of our history. People like him—they do whatever it takes to gain power. He covets your abilities, and he will do his best to control you or manipulate you. And if he can't do that…"

Emma touches his cheek and turns his face so that his eyes are no longer locked on the book, but on her. "You're afraid for me." A statement, not a question.

"Of course I am, love. Having the Dark One teach you magic is like letting pirates raise a child—anything that can go wrong probably will." He laughs, but Emma knows him too well and hears the lingering pain in his voice. She doesn't know all of his past, but she's damn sure that he's let her in on a major portion of it. He leans in to her touch, then gently reaches up with his good hand to cup her chin. "I don't care how powerful you are, lass; I just want you to be safe. Well, as safe as any princess can be searching Neverland for her kidnapped son, whilst carrying a torch for an utter scoundrel."

Killian attempts a roguish smirk, but he can't hide the concern and worry lurking in his eyes. She kisses his palm softly and then his lips, an acceptance of his right to be anxious and to soothe away his fears. "I promise to be careful of Gold, so long as you promise me that you will keep any heroics to a minimum." He pulls back, almost managing to look offended. "That's right, Jones; I'm on to you! You may act like and look like a pirate, but I know a hero when I see one."

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The sun is well above the horizon by the time Emma and Killian make their way up on deck. Snow and Charming are talking to each other, but have clearly been watching for them. Regina and Rumplestiltskin stand near the helm, looking at the charts and discussing possible courses of action for the day.

"With the Lorelei missing or unwilling to help us, I suggest we try and make contact with the original inhabitants of Neverland." The Dark One shudders at the queen's suggestion.

"Do you have a problem with the natives, Crocodile?" Killian can't help but look a bit smug at the sight of his enemy's discomfort. But the old man goes absolutely still when he notices the couple's linked hands. Pain, shock, annoyance, hate, malice, rage—it seems impossible that one face can contain so many emotions at once. Fire springs to life from his fingertip, engulfing his entire hand and most of his lower arm in an instant. Emma is prepared for his reaction, denying the flames the oxygen they need to survive. "The princess has agreed to remain behind without a fuss. Since we know she is able to control her magic on her own, I believe that either you or her Majesty have spell books which might assist her in some of the finer points of the craft."

"Magic isn't something that can be learned just by reading, dearie!"

"And yet, you gave your Belle an enchantment to cast over Storybrooke. Unless I am mistaken, she possesses no power or abilities; thus, it _can_ be done."

"That was a matter of-"

"An emergency? Well so is this, Gold. You know that I don't need you to teach me, and I'll do a far better job of concentrating when I'm not worried about the damage I'll have to repair later. If I have any questions, I can ask Regina." The queen looks both startled and pleased by Emma's sudden vote of confidence. Without waiting for anything further from the wizard, she gently tugs on Killian's hand, and they move away together as a unit. Her parents intercept them before they can go too far.

"Are you sure that this is what you want, honey? I mean, not that I trust Rumplestiltskin, but isn't it better if you have a real teacher?" Snow all but pulls her daughter away from the pirate, leaving the two men alone together.

David attempts an intimidating glare, but Killian isn't fooled a bit. "I don't suppose we need to point out the obvious, but I love her and will do all in my power to secure her happiness. I'll make you the same promise that I made her, your Majesty: as long as she'll have me, I am hers to command and will protect her life with mine."

"You're an honorable man, Jones. I just hope that Gold doesn't make any poor decisions while we're out there, because I have a feeling I'll be answering to my daughter is anything happens to you." The men share a smile of camaraderie and understanding, then both look away toward the women they love.


	18. Stranger Than You Dreamt It

"Emma, honey, what-?"

"Mom, I seriously don't want to go into a detailed discussion of what happened right now, okay? For now, what really matters is finding Henry. Killian was right about my powers—I need to get them under control before I can go out there and be helpful. And Rumplestiltskin's magic will be put to better use if he's with the rest of you. If anything happens here and I need help…? Well, I'm pretty sure Killian will know just as soon as I do." Emma blushes slightly, looking up and searching for him. His eyes are already on her, filled with concern for her and an undeniable heat. She quickly turns to face Snow, who only makes her blushing worse with that motherly I-told-you-so grin.

"I knew it! Ever since you refused to let anyone else go up that beanstalk with him, I knew that this was coming! God, the way he looked at you after you had threatened him and everything… I'm so happy for you, even if he is a pirate."

"Mom. No room to be judging! And what part of "not now" don't you understand? And if you or Dad embarrasses Killian, I swear to-" She doesn't get to finish her threat because she is caught in a crushing hug. This is the part of Mary-Margaret that she's missed the most-the best friend who calls her on her bullshit, but still supports her decisions no matter what.

"I'm just glad that you've found your True Love. That's what your father and I have always wanted for you." Snow whispers in her ear, and Emma stiffens slightly at the phrase. She can't deny that she loves Killian, any more than he can pretend that he doesn't feel the same way about her. But "True" Love? She has no time to really think about those powerful words because the man in question and her father choose that moment to join them. Emma reaches for his hand, but he slips it past her and around her waist. Her whole body shivers pleasantly, remembering what that hand did to her naked skin last night. He smiles at her as if he knows exactly what's going through her mind; because, as usual, he reads her eyes and body and _does_ know.

Killian leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers. She closes her eyes, both to enjoy the sensation and to hide from him the hurt she feels. She knows that staying behind is necessary, but that doesn't make it any less painful to not be out looking for her son and to not be there to protect her pirate. Her chest practically aches with worry, and somehow, he knows exactly what she needs from him. He pulls her hand up so that it rests on his chest above his heart. "This belongs to you now, lass. I promise not to take any chances with it, or with your parents' safety." He brushes her nose with his and plants a gentle kiss on her lips.

"You'd better not, Killian Jones. Just…" The words catch in her throat, so she pulls him to her for a more thorough kiss. It doesn't matter to her that they have an audience, because she's forgotten that anyone else it there. She's afraid for him to be going out there with a man who wants him dead at his back; she's afraid that she might not get a handle on her abilities before they need her to be ready. She's afraid that they will be too late to save Henry. Those fears find their way into her kiss, but as always, he knows exactly what she needs from him. He manages to take control and fill their silent communication with his resolve, his strength, and his faith in her. When he pulls back, she's regained a certain measure of calm and recaptured her trust in him.

He moves her so that their chests are no longer pressed close together, but side by side, his arm still around her waist. "Your Majesties, the plan is to locate the natives of Neverland. You all know that this is a prison, a hell dimension of sorts. Well, most hells have their demons, and this one happens to be where all of the particularly nasty fairies go when they die. If anyone has a clue where the Shadow is hiding, it will be them."

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Emma isn't exactly the type of person to feel either easy or comfortable being left behind while others go into danger. So, after a quick kiss to Killian's cheek and a hug for her Mom and Dad, she goes below deck so that she won't have to watch them go. Rationally, she knows that he can take care of himself in a fight, and that with her parents and Regina guarding her lover's back, Rumplestiltskin would be a fool to try and retaliate in any way. But the part of herself that she has denied for so long—her capacity to love and to feel—is absolutely terrified that the worst can and will happen without her there with him. Desperately trying to stave off a panic attack, she lets her innate stubbornness take over, willing herself to learn as much as she can as soon as possible. She also hates feeling useless. This is a rescue mission after all, and even though guarding the Jolly Roger is vital to their success, Emma would feel much better if she were able to contribute in a more active way.

Rather than sit out under the harsh sun, she goes back to the Captain's cabin. She feels oddly at home there, but the room is undeniably his, littered with masculine and nautical items. She goes to the small windows at the back wall, opening them so that the cooling sea breeze can come through. Instead of chasing it away, the salty tang makes Killian's scent even stronger, leading Emma's thoughts toward the un-made bed and all that had happened here last night. She shivers with phantom sensations, her body calling to mind the places he had touched, had kissed; as much as she would love to just lie down in those sheets again, relishing and reliving every moment, Emma knows that there is work to be done. Mentally and physically shaking herself, she sits down at his desk and opens the leather-bound spell book to the front page.

She watches the yellowed leaf go from blank to breathtaking in seconds. Inks in a variety of colors sweep across the paper, creating new patterns and images for her every second; there seems to be no particular rhyme or reason to any of the words or symbols, which is hardly surprising to her. This spell book is from a land which, although hers by birthright, is nonetheless foreign and mysterious to her. But as hard as she tries to concentrate on the pages in front of her, her mind keeps drifting off to thoughts of Killian. Spicy clove and sharp cedar and clean salt are even stronger now than they were before, suddenly making it difficult for her to breathe. She gasps or air, lungs protesting and screaming at her. She opens her mouth in a silent scream when all light fades to darkness.

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Emma fills her lungs violently and begins coughing the second she wakes up. After all but bringing up her breakfast and a few vital organs, she looks around and finds herself in a very familiar place. Instead of an autumn afternoon, it's a dark, starry night at the crossroads from her and Killian's dream. Even though there's no moon in the sky, the black marble altar practically glows with its own inner light and the bowl and chalice glint with tiny pin-pricks of starlight. She has no idea why, but in her bones, she knows that it's midnight.

"That is because of what you are, Emma Swan. You are a Soteria, a savior, born during a transition from one world to the next and bringing about redemption, rebirth, salvation. There is an ancient power running through your blood, and so the Moon calls to you. And so have I, child."

She looks closer and sees the vague outline of a woman standing next to the altar—a shadow that becomes more and more substantial the longer Emma stares at her. The first thing she notices is the bright, glowing green of the woman's eyes, so similar to her own whenever she uses her magic. She's also strikingly beautiful, with glowing olive skin and long hair that alternates its colors from white to black to silver. She's dressed in what looks like a toga, the fabric so bleached bright that it has a bluish cast to it. Emma knows that she should be terrified of this woman, but she learned a long time ago that fear is a weakness others will use against you if they can. So despite being sprawled in a heap in the dirt, she acts as defiant and put-out as possible. "Who are you, and why am I here?"

The woman laughs—a sound of deep cathedral bells, hauntingly beautiful. "Oh, I like you, Soteria; I knew that I would. I believe I already told you why you are here: your magic, Emma. It needs to be harnessed, and I happen to be quite adept at teaching the very skills you require. When you opened the book, you were answering my messages so to speak. Since you know where you are, I needn't ask if you got them." She chuckles as if they've shared a joke, which makes Emma both uncomfortable and as if she's known this woman her entire life. Her confused feelings make her even more uneasy.

"Wait. How did you know I recognized this place? Can you—are you reading my mind?"

"Telepathy _is_ one of your many gifts. I had to block your cry for help to your Captain, as a matter of fact. It was quite strong and would have needlessly alarmed him. He's safe, by the way; I have my sister following your group, ensuring that the cursed man causes him no harm to befall him. She doesn't like your pirate very much, but then she does not See as I do. Artemis is quite… particular when it comes to masculine company."

The woman is throwing so much information at her that she doesn't know what to process first: that apparently her magical abilities far outnumber Reumplestiltskin's or that somehow _another_ Greek deity is running around Neverland. "Technically speaking, dear, we aren't _any_ nationality. Certainly not myself or Pan, since we have been around far longer than most. But that reminds me of your other questions. Yes, I am reading your mind; though really, dear, you are quite shouting your thoughts. And as for me, well, I have many names—the Egyptians called me Ua Zit; Hindus know me as Naga Kanya; in Africa and Australia, I am the rainbow serpent and his bride, Damballa and Ayida; the Celts and Picts and Gaels worshiped me as Brighid, or Ciara Liadan. But since the Greeks and Romans had a much better PR machine, you might have heard of me as Hecate, mother of magicks and darkness; the Trivia, goddess of the three ways and patroness of the crossroads. And yes, Emma Swan, you are far more powerful than the conjuror."

"How is this—any of it—even possible?"

"How is anything in this world possible, dear? Belief. Your parents' love and faith in each other gave life to their marriage, gave birth to a dream. You. Then they trusted that you would return to save them; that is your gift, child. You inspire others to dare, to dream, to _hope_, _**to live**_… Can you not see that, a breathing example of it in the man you were holding in your arms just moments ago? Your power is greater than Rumplestiltskin's because it creates, because it brings people back from the edge and gives them something to aspire to. Love creates endless possibilities, dear Emma." Hecate looks at her with a mixture of awe and wonder and pride. It's an expression she's seen before, but only on four other faces, to be exact.

"So, what does all of this mean? How will my ability to create things help us get Henry back? And, how will it help us find our way out of here?"

"I know it all seems daunting and hopeless at the moment, but give us time to work together, and I will aid you in your quest. Indeed, Emma, I am here because I need your assistance. I am here by the request of all the gods to ask _you_ to help _us_."

"How? I may have magic, but I'm nobody."

Hecate shakes her head sadly at this, taking Emma's hand and leading her toward the altar. Despite the fact that she looks suddenly old, the goddess hops up onto the marble block as if she were a young girl. "Sit next to me, dear, and I will explain how we have all come to be where we are. The cursed man told you of how Pan came to be imprisoned in Neverland, but we gods have carefully protected the why. As men began to doubt our existence, or placed their faiths elsewhere, our powers began to weaken and we could no longer create at will. We deities long ago limited certain powers of ours, by choice, after my brother and sister Titans were defeated.

"The god Vulcan was tasked with creating an object, a nexus through which we could continue to travel throughout the worlds. He created a permanent portal, capable of going anywhere, so long as you could will yourself to that location. This was what Pan attempted to steal from us, and this is the same object he desires again. If he alone can control it, then we will continue to weaken and fade, while he will become powerful again. But, he cannot operate this nexus without a corporeal form—a body capable of channeling his powers and the magic of the portal."

"Henry."

Hecate places a hand on her shoulder, and she feels a rush of sympathy and compassion literally flow through her body. The goddess smiles, but gently shakes her head. "No, not just Henry, my dear. He needs an untrained magician, Emma… Do you happen to have any spare ones of those about?"


	19. Time Is On My Side

_One Month Later_

Emma stands at the helm of the Jolly Roger, watching the shoreline for her first glimpse of Killian and her parents. Every single day has been its own unique form of torture because they've lasted much, much longer than the twenty-four hours that she's used to. Using the magic of the book, she has met Hecate at the crossroads to learn new spells and skills; the goddess, whose powers govern the three worlds of land and sky and sea, is capable of bending time itself, allowing them to compress days worth of lessons into a mere handful of hours. She was so exhausted by that first encounter and training session that she didn't even come back to Neverland's reality until the others returned from a day of searching. She'd "woken up" only to discover that she was lying naked in their bed; she'd only just managed to get her shirt on when Killian had burst through the door looking for her.

Once her anxieties about his safety had been alleviated by seeing and holding him in her arms again, her focus had switched to her concerns for Henry. Thus, their intimate reunion had been necessarily brief, Emma demanding a full report on what had happened and bent on planning the course of action for the next day. All of the maps from Jones' previous stay in Neverland had proved practically useless. Many of the major landmarks had simply disappeared, or had been destroyed in some way. Rock formations had been quarried or reduced to gravel dunes; trees had been uprooted and left to die; and scorch marks could be found everywhere as if an army had passed through. Since that first day of exploration, they had divided the island into spoked sections of a large circle; on good days, they had managed to cover three segments. On bad days, unfortunately, the jungle seemed to have a mind of its own. And while it didn't jump out and attack them or reveal murderous, mutant vegetation, it appeared to be intent on slowing down their progress.

Eerily, all creatures and animals had apparently disappeared as well. When Snow had pointed out that this would mean they couldn't replenish their food stores, Killian had had to let them in on that part of Neverland's curse—since everyone was essentially frozen in time, their bodies did not need food or water, but would occasionally forget and make them experience the physical pains of dehydration and starvation. Unfortunately, even if they managed to get water or food into their system, there was no way to stop the suffering until their bodies "remembered" that it was alright. Regina had not been entirely pleased with the revelation, and Rumplestiltskin had gamely attempted to use the withheld knowledge against Jones; but David had pointed out that the Dark One had known as well, yet also had chosen not to explain things to the group. That day had been a particularly nasty one all around, with them barely making it through one section of the forest before nightfall. On striking the beach, Rumplestiltskin had conjured a wall of fire and flung it at the dense trees. He'd stood on deck for a good portion of the night, watching gleefully as all of Neverland burned. But when they got up in the morning, the jungle was just as dense as it had been the day before.

This had happened three days ago. Every so often, they had needed to move in order to keep up with the segments they were to look over and not get too far from the Jolly Roger. Thankfully, Emma's newly acquired knowledge of sailing combined with her magic allowed her to safely control the vessel entirely on her own. Apart from her telepathy, this was the skill she had used the most since the start of her training. She was still trying to find a way for Killian to be able to Talk to her, to project his thoughts into her mind. It had worked, but so far very sporadically, or only from short distances. He was much better at hearing her "reports" to him once she had come back from her lessons with Hecate. Thankfully, today he's now within both Hearing and Talking range and has managed to let her know where to sail the ship to meet them. He also mentioned something about stowaways. Emma had mentally cringed at that, but told him that she would be ready; part of her deal with Hecate and Artemis meant that she had to keep certain things from her Captain. She just hopes that the goddesses know what they are doing, and that Killian doesn't catch on to the fact that she's hiding something.

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Today has been the same as all the days before it: with an eye to preventing bloodshed, Killian and Regina are at the front of the search party, using sword and magic to clear a path through the vines and leaves; Snow and David are in the center, keeping an eye out for any spies to their right and left flanks; and Rumplestiltskin covers the possibility of a rear attack. About two hours ago, they had come across a clearing of churned-up and charred earth—a nearly perfect circular crater of destruction. The trees around it for about three hundred feet were in a sad state, many of them mangled and burned or felled and left to rot. Some of the trunks were still smoking even, indicating that the damage had been done recently. Broken bits of glass also littered the ground or could be found embedded in the trees. A major battle had gone down here, but all sides had clearly had enough time to retrieve any dead they had initially left behind.

Ever since they had moved on, Killian has felt…twitchy. His hairs stand on end and with every passing moment, his gut keeps telling him that they are being followed and watched. It's a sort of sixth sense he's always remembered having. Even before his father sold him to Captain Read all those years ago and he'd been in his first battle, he's been able to anticipate an enemy or target's moves before they have made them. He's never been able to describe it to anyone else, and no one ever believed him the few times he'd tried to. So, while leading the group forward, he says nothing to the others about the tails he is certain they have acquired.

A sudden movement to either side startles both him and Regina, who turns to the right and takes a few more steps to her left, in the direction they had been taking. Snow and David step out closer to the trees as well; he shouts a warning not to move, but the three royals are too used to doing things their way. His back to the three of them, he can't spin around quick enough to sever the vines that wrap around their feet and yank them off the ground. Furthermore, his distraction with his group causes him to miss the attack coming from their initial direction. He finds himself flat on his back, staring down the growling muzzle of a huge black dog. A flick of his eyes reveals that the Dark One is caught as well, tiny arms and legs wrapped around his torso and a wicked-looking blade at his throat. A piping voice sounds out. "Surrender to us now, villainous pirates, or Actaeon will rip your throat out!"

The voice comes from behind Rumplestiltskin's head, startling both men. They can hear muttered cursing from the royals who are now suspended upside down above them. "And don't even think about using you magic, conjuror! This blade is made of Fairy silver, just like your precious dagger, and will kill you just as dead!" Killian sees tangled blonde hair and bright blue eyes peek at him from around the Dark One's head.

"And to whom are we surrendering, little one? Only one of our group is a pirate, and that would be me, but I swear to you that we intend you no harm. We are searching for someone stolen away from us by the Lost Ones. If your Actaeon will let me up, I promise that I will not attack. You have my word as a gentleman."

The little girl lets out a jaded laugh for one so young seeming. But then louder rustling sounds to Killian's right, and two more of the massive dogs appear by the side of a ten year-old girl. The child looks vaguely familiar to him, but the combination of white-blonde hair and black eyes is something he would never forget. "Dinah, stop it! Behave yourself! Actaeon, stand down!"

The mutant dog whines, but is quick to obey her and allows Killian to sit up. The girl reaches a hand down to him, helping him to his feet with no effort at all. "I apologize, Captain. My sister has no manners or social graces to speak of. And apologies to you, majesties three; I'll have you down shortly. Dinah, please get off of the conjuror. He can't hurt you, but more importantly, he won't."

"I wouldn't bet your prize hunters on that, dearie. This hellion has insulted me!"

The girl plants her hands on her hips and stares down Rumplestiltskin, making the connection for Killian—this child forcibly reminds him of Emma and how he imagines she must have acted in her youth. "Dinah, as I already mentioned is a little leery of people, but men in particular. She saw you as a threat to us, which is a perfectly logical conclusion here in Neverland, where adults tend to be more troublesome than children. But the reason you won't hurt us is because we are going to help you find Henry. I've seen him with my own eyes, and he's fine. But we need to get you to him fast. You all took much longer than expected getting here."

"When did you last see him? Is he hurt, milady?"

Black eyes stare at him unsettlingly, assessingly. He again gets the feeling that he's seen this girl-child before. "I last saw him myself nigh on a month ago, Captain, but I have other eyes watching over him. The battlefield you just passed? That used to be Hangman's Tree; it was attacked two days ago by the natives. He and the Lost Ones got Henry out in time, so he's safe for the time being. Luckily, one of my spies is following them. We believe that they are headed to the old Picaninny encampment near Skull Rock. With your ship, we can beat them there and set up an ambush."

"Slow down, little lass. That's quite a lot of information there to-"

"We don't have time for this, Captain! We can help you and can explain everything. Just take us back to your ship and Henry's mother. And my name is Trinity, not lass. Dinah and Actaeon you've met; these girls are Galinthias and Hecuba, but don't worry about them biting. Conjuror, would you please help me in getting the royals down safely?"

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When the search party finally makes it back to the Jolly Roger, it's with two young girls and three big black dogs in tow. Emma gives Killian and her parents a once-over for injuries and curses, like she always does, before raising an eyebrow. _"So these are the stowaways you mentioned? What happened out there?"_

He knows that she prefers silent communication whenever Rumplestiltskin is around, but the idea of his lover being in his head is still a little unnerving. After that first day when she told him about her unexpected lessons and teacher, he'd uneasily asked her if she could read his every thought. She'd said that she could if she wanted to, but she felt that doing so would be a violation of his trust in her and a misuse of her gifts. So, even though she gives a little "knock" before speaking, it's still new enough to make him a tad jumpy. _"Aye, Emma love. These are them. Littlest had traps set and that hulking beast to take care of me and the others. She was bloody brilliant though! Surprised the Crocodile by jumping onto his back and holding a Pixie blade to his throat. Wild thing, goes by the name of Dinah and doesn't seem to like pirates much."_

His lips twitch into a smile at the mention of what happened to Rumplestiltskin, managing to send an image to her of how it looked from his perspective. She has to stifle a chuckle at the look on the old man's face and has no idea how Killian managed not to laugh as well. _"Unless there's something you haven't told me yet, it's probably nothing personal. Who knows how long these girls have been here? They could be older than you, for all we know."_

The girls in question both come straight to Emma. Little Dinah, who looks to be about 6 years old, immediately latches onto her left hand, sticking her tongue out at her sister. Trinity glares at her younger sibling before curtsying. "Soteria, your coming here was foretold. We're very glad you're finally here."

Everyone except Killian and Emma look shocked at the girl's pronouncement, none more so than Rumplestiltskin. "How is that possible? I see the future; if she were that important, I would know about it."

"You see a great deal, Dark One, but you still lack vision. Your quests for knowledge have left you blind to many things unfolding right before you. Emma Swan is more than the product of True Love, more than a savior—she is goddess-touched. Your powers and hers flow from the same fountain, but they take divergent paths. You did not see and cannot see because the Three-Ways wills it so. Now, having established that you are much more limited than you would like, can we move on to the more pressing business of saving Henry?" Other than Emma, no one has ever put Gold in his place so thoroughly or quickly before.

Killian executes a courtly bow for his lover and the two girls. "My ladies, I do believe that this discussion is best had below decks. Shall we?" He offers one arm to Emma, who notices that Dinah is very careful to keep her hand but also to keep her distance from the pirate, and the other to Trinity.

_"I'm not going to fall walking on my own, you know,_ darling_."_

_"I am well aware of your gracefulness and poise on the water, my princess. However, it would be positively ungallant of me not to at least offer my assistance. Besides, love, you know I'll take any excuse to touch you that I can get."_

_"If you two are __**quite**__ finished mentally flirting with each other, I do believe that we have some issues to discuss. Namely, what happened at Hangman's Tree and how to get Henry back."_


	20. Everything That Can Go Wrong

Killian shoots a frightened look at Emma, who squeezes his hand and shakes her head at him. This is not common knowledge to be shared, her look implies. She gently inclines her head toward his other side, toward the ten year-old who's staring up at him pointedly. _"That's right, Captain. I am much more than I seem. But we needn't divulge that to everyone just yet. Sometimes, you must be extra vigilant and cautious around uncertain allies."_

Her piercing gaze flicks over to the Dark One, indicating exactly who she does not trust with this information. _"And where does that place you, milady? Are you not yourself someone who we should treat with wariness?"_ If Talking to Swan feels strange, it is even more uncomfortable to be mentally conversing with an unknown child.

_"I've known you for a very long time, Killian Jones. Tell me something, why is it, do you think, that Mr. Smee never left you the same way that all the others of your crew did? He barely knew you, and yet every day he reminded you that one day, you would have your revenge, that you would escape Neverland, and find Rumplestiltskin. More than eight hundred years is an awfully long time to have faith in a man you've just met. How do you think he came to have such complete confidence in you and utter devotion to your cause? The gods do often choose the most unlikely tools to carry out their will."_

He looks into childishly ancient black eyes with new fear and awe, and he suddenly knows where he's seen this girl before. _"You. You were the one in my dream, who took me back to see Milah."_

_"And at the crossroads with the two little souls. Understand, Captain, I shepherd the souls of those who have not entered this world, as well as those who are still on their journey through this realm before they can enter the Underworld. And there are some who wait with me for eons because the stars fail to align properly for them. You needed to have the scales ripped from your eyes, child, otherwise you would have failed to see what was standing right in front of you. I am indeed sorry for the pain I caused you, but if you had continued to wallow in misery and darkness… Well, more souls than your own could have been beyond saving."_

This entire, cryptic conversation happens during the short trip to the galley, and it thoroughly disorients him. He and his ship have seen many strange things together, but playing host to a pair of deities has to top the list. Once everyone finds a place to sit—Emma choosing Killian's lap, which brings an exasperated sigh from Dinah, who finally gives up and heads over to sit with Snow—Jones looks to Trinity to begin. _"She's just jealous, Captain."_

Surprisingly, it's the littlest who speaks. "Much has changed since Baelfire was allowed to leave Neverland so that he could father the Chosen. Indeed, much has changed since you left, _pirate_. You already know that all hells-bound fairies were sent here as wardens, tasked for all eternity with keeping Pan here and making his existence as miserable as possible. But they are here as punishment too, and decided to make a truce with him. They allowed him to use their magics so that he could open holes in the fabric of realities; not portals, mind you, but close enough. However, once they discovered his real plans, and that he never intended on letting them escape to other realms… Let's just say they weren't too happy with him."

Trinity takes over for her sister, missing not a beat. "First, they slaughtered every creature they could find, including the Indians. I'm sorry, Captain, but not a single soul survived. All of your friends are dead. Then, they started hunting the Lost Boys and Girls—those of us who fell through the cracks in their security and have managed to live off the land and our wits. Not many of us are left, and we've only stayed alive because we always keep moving. But then it was the birds, the game, the monkeys, even the other fair folk like the Lorelei and the Roane if they wandered off on their own. One by one, they've hunted every single species to the brink of extinction. Except for the Lost Ones."

"So, what changed?" Every one of them waits for the answer to Snow's question. Dinah grabs her hand and pats it reassuringly, as an old woman would do with a distressed young child.

"Once they knew that Henry had been found and brought to Neverland, and that Pan was close to achieving his goal, they decided to deny him his victory. They attacked Hangman's Tree with the sole intent of killing the Chosen."

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_Three Days Ago_

Henry first notices that something is wrong when the crying stopped. Absolute silence never happens in Neverland, at least not here at Hangman's Tree. During the day, he can always hear the Lost Ones—older and younger—as they work on their scientific experiments, finding new ways to counteract magic. And then of course, at night, there's the bawling of the youngest. But even in those lulls before dawn and after sunset, there's always the rush of wind in the flat, gray trees. It's as if, all of a sudden, the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for something to occur. And that's when he notices the red and orange light edging around the skyline and the jungle canopy. Faster than he imagines possible, the forest surrounding the clearing and tree-house becomes a raging inferno; he's reminded forcefully of the heat and terror and pain of the red room from his dreams, the Netherworld he entered after his Mom broke the Sleeping Curse.

_"Admiring your Grandfather's handiwork, Henry? He seems to think that his magic will help solve any problem for him, can cut through any difficulty. But this is MY world, and he'll soon learn some respect."_

He glances to the side at the Shadow floating just a few feet to his left, looking out at the burning leaves, vines, and trees. The yellow eyes are bright and fierce, staring out at the destruction of his jungle prison. Henry goes back to watching the flames—frightening, yes, but they provide him with color and difference, and a reminder that his family is coming to save him. All too soon, a loud wind passes through and snuffs out the fires instantaneously. Everything is dark, bleak, and hopeless again.

_"Don't worry, Henry. The jungle will be just as it was in the morning. Neverland does not like it when wizards think that they can control it. But I didn't come here to talk about trees and plants. Have you reconsidered my offer? Think of it, my boy! You can go wherever you want, do whatever you want, and no one will be able to stop you!"_

"The only place I want to go is back home to Storybrooke. I want to be with my Mom, with both of my Moms. I want us to be a family and for everyone to be happy."

_"And you can have that, Henry. You can __**make**__ them be happy. You can make them love you, and you will have the biggest family anyone has ever seen! Because everyone in the world will __**have**__ to love you. They'll take care of your every need. And you'll never have to get sick. And you'll never have to see any of your loved ones die, ever again."_

The last is spoken quietly, almost as an afterthought. But Henry is smart enough to know that the Shadow is trying to manipulate him, is trying to convince him that what he knows in his heart to be true is all a lie. He understands this because he's been through it before, when his Mom really was the Evil Queen, intent on keeping her curse unbroken at any cost. Instead of denying that he never wants to lose anyone else, he simply turns away and watches the fire line pass over the treetops in the distance.

_"I know that you don't trust me, Henry, but I really __**do**__ want you to be happy… Do you remember when I told you that I could see the future? Well, what if I told you that I can See into other worlds as well? What if I told you that your father survived his trip through the portal? And that he was rescued by two young women and a warrior, and that Baelfire is even now recovering and trying to find a way to get home to you. If you do what I ask, then you can be reunited with your father in a heartbeat! What do you say to that?"_

The Shadow reaches out his hand as if he wants to shake on it. For the first time, Henry really, truly doubts himself and his family. His Mom is the Savior, but she couldn't save his Dad; and she'd lied about him being a fireman and a hero. And more than anything, he wants to believe that Pan is telling him the truth, that Neal is alive somewhere. He is desperate for his Dad to not be dead, but he can't tell anymore what is true and what is a lie.

Suddenly, a loud howling like wolves sounds eerily nearby. And not just one or two, but a large pack of them—as if Hangman's Tree is surrounded by wild beasts. _"Black Moon Dogs… Damn you to hells, Hecate!"_ The Shadow disappears through the walls as unexpectedly as he came. The cacophony is almost deafening, and Henry covers his ears to try and cut out some of the noise. But just as suddenly as it started, the baying stops. Everything is still, preparing for the inevitable; this is when the attack comes.

Like a well-planned cannonade, balls of different colored lights launch themselves into the sky from the trees. He watches in awe at the bright, pulsing colors light up the night. But when they descend into the clearing and onto the tree-house, they leave chaos and destruction in their wake. Many are like bombs or cannon balls, blasting earth and bark and wood from their places. Glass shatters with each percussion, an unholy tinkling, ripping sound. The lab equipment is on fire, with more beakers and computers exploding every second from the continued bombardment. Some of the Lost Ones are running out into the clearing, some to mount a counter-offensive and others to salvage some of their research. And that's when Henry finally sees them.

Some of them are gaunt, resembling saplings that decided to start walking more than people. Gray skinned, twiggy, with wild green, shaggy hair—they look like something out of a nightmare. Others look fairly normal, but all of them have large, colorful butterfly wings. They are strikingly beautiful and terrifically fierce. Even though he's high up and relatively safe, he fears these creatures much more than he does Greg or Tamara and only slightly less than he does Pan. As if his thoughts conjure them, his cell door opens, and his kidnappers rush to grab him. "Time to go, kid. We need to get the hell out of here fast, Greg!"

They all but lift him off his feet, trying to get his out of his prison and into the labyrinth that is the Tree. Several times, the ground shifts and quakes beneath them as if their attackers have started bombing the very foundations of the lair. But finally, they are out in the open. Smokes and fires of different colors choke the air around them, making it difficult to see or breathe properly. Henry is doubled over, coughing when some of the air clears. About twenty yards away, he sees her and starts running toward her. The heart-shaped face, brown hair, and blue eyes are incredibly welcome and familiar. "Belle! You found me! I knew you guys would come for me!"

He's ready to throw himself into her arms when he notices that she has dark purple wings at her back and a bloody sword in her hands. She glares at him the same way that some would stare at a scorpion, with loathing and fear and anger. She raises her blade, two-handed over her shoulder, and it is only the pair of arms pulling him back that save Henry from certain death. As it is, Henry feels a sharp sting across his left cheek below his eye and the blood that starts to drip down his face. Tamara now has the creature by the throat, desperately trying to disarm her. "Go, Greg! Get him out of here!"

The last thing Henry sees, after Greg throws him over his shoulder and starts running into the dubious shelter of the jungle, is the tip of the fairy blade sticking out of Tamara's back.

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The arm that Killian has around her waist tightens at little Dinah's words. Trinity touches him on the shoulder, and he gets the oddest sensation—it's like a current of energy flows into him and through him. He can feel something almost tickle, almost pins-and-needles, almost rub along the different muscles and tissues of his body. And it comes from the girl to him, and then to Emma, and back again—a continuous loop. Whatever it is, he senses a change in his princess, a nearly visible stiffening of her spine and resolve and strength. "But you know for sure that he's alright. He's safe and protected?"

"Yes, Soteria. Our spies tell us that they were able to get him to relative safety and cover their trail. As we said, we believe they are headed to Skull Rock."

"Then that's where we shall meet them. Come on, lass, David—no time like the present. Let's get the Roger ready to sail."


	21. Pieces of the Puzzles

After helping Killian and her father get the ship underway, Emma and Trinity retreat down to the Captain's quarters to mentally and magically prepare for what's ahead. Dinah, strangely enough, pulls Regina and Snow below deck as well, but the large black hounds remain topside, watchful, tracking the movements of David in the rigging and seeming to glare at the Dark One's pacing limp. They are lined up, curiously, so that they appear to be guarding the steps leading up to the helm. Even the beasts manage to convey a sense of distrust in Rumplestiltskin and his intentions. The man is clearly agitated about something, wrestling with a decision or inner turmoil. Jones does his best to simply ignore him, focusing his mind on the wind in the sails, the rush of the waves against the hull, and the ever-present hum of his ship—a glorious singing he hears whenever she's happy.

But despite the joy and freedom he feels being in command of his beloved vessel, his thoughts never stray far from the young boy they are all desperate to save, each in their own ways. For him, this free-fall into the last place he ever wanted to set eyes on again—this suicidal rescue mission straight into the heart of darkness and despair—has first and foremost been about doing whatever Emma asked of him. Honoring the memories of Milah and Baelfire by saving their last legacy this side of the grave, honestly, came at a distant second. But now, after a month of sharing a bed with his Swan, talking with her about all the little details that built their separate lives, Killian feels like he has come to know Henry a bit. He admires the bravery and the brass cheek of a boy raised by the Evil Queen and yet who has done so much good in their world: hopping on a large mechanical carriage to a faraway city to find Emma; convincing her to come to Storybrooke, and then to stay; eating the poisoned pastry to prove to Emma that the curse was real…

He thinks that Milah would have admired Henry, would have been proud of the boy that Emma and Baelfire made together; and for the first time in years, her name and memory don't bring an agonizing ache to his chest. He doesn't feel empty anymore—_dried-up, dead, useless_—words he carelessly flung at his Swan once upon a time, but which he always meant in reference to himself. He didn't realize it in that moment, of course, but when he decided to restore that bean in the waters of Lake Nostos… He couldn't have imagined then that he had placed himself on his own path to restoration, to redemption and rejuvenation. He went looking to lose himself in death's embrace on the other side of that portal; he stood at the brink, ready to jump, until she held out her hand to him and offered him everything he had once dared to dream of.

Killian knows that rescuing Henry will not be easy, and in spite of their fierce love for each other, he and his princess have much to work on together. And they are still getting to know one another, but knowing that you can trust your partner to have your back or be at your side whenever necessary is a luxury they are both thoroughly enjoying. Leaning on the other makes them more instead of less, stronger instead of weaker. Like two trees whose roots have grown intertwined together will remain standing after a hurricane; or two boulders on the shore will eventually collide and fuse under the pounding pressure of the surf; their love, their reliance on the other, creates something new and better in each of them. They are forever changed.

A low growling breaks his rather pleasant musings. The Dark One glares menacingly at one of the dogs, which is preventing him from joining Killian at the helm. "It appears that the young ladies do not trust you, Crocodile."

"Oh, come now, _Hook_. I've been plenty civilized thus far, haven't I?"

"Indeed, and that very veneer has me worried as to what menace you are hiding. In my experience, the formalities often conceal the most devious of unpleasant surprises."

"Now, now, dearie. I was simply coming up here for a wee chat with you. You don't even have to talk, just listen." Killian turns his gaze back to the horizon, neither accepting nor rejecting Rumplestiltskin's offer of parley. "You know that had any other option been available to us, or Miss Swan not interfered like she always does, I would not have hesitated to take it. Every inch of this stinking vessel reminds me of what you took from me, what you took from Bae when you ran off with Milah. And to add insult to injury, I have to sit idly by while you charm your way into Emma's good grace. Make no mistake, pirate, if I find a way to end your miserable existence, I will. But first, I'm going to give you a choice.

"Should you be foolish enough to stay and continue attempting to insinuate yourself into Miss Swan's life, I can guarantee that things will become quite messy and unpleasant for the both of you. Bae is dead because of me; Milah is dead because of you; I won't have Henry placed in any more danger than necessary. I may be the longest lived of your enemies, but we both know that grudges sometimes live longer than one man is capable of. Once word were to get out to the realms of any fortunate alliance you make, the gutter rats and alley cats will come and drown you in blood and misery. As gratifying as those images are to me, there's still the problem of the jeopardy in which that would place my grandson's life. So then, once this is all over, and Henry is safely returned to Storybrooke, my bargain is this: you get to walk away with your life and something you've been looking for for a long time."

"Your threats are nothing new, Rumplestiltskin. And there is not much I wouldn't wager on the assertion that you can offer me absolutely nothing that would persuade me to leave Emma."

"Not even knowledge about who you really are? Your father never said much about your mother, did he? No, he was too busy teaching you his thieving ways. And did you ever consider why he left you on that particular ship, indentured to that particular Captain? Grace Read, wasn't it? You know, I don't even think that an indenture held by a pirate is legally binding. Assuming of course that money and documentation even changed hands."

"What is your point, Crocodile?"

Rumplestiltskin's smile becomes dark and all too pleased. "It's called bait, Hook. You agree to my terms, and I tell you who you really are, where you truly come from. Charming and his dearly departed brother were not the first children I bargained for, nor am I alone in making these sorts of deals. My predecessor was quite fond of placing changelings in royal cribs. And vice versa."

The enemies lock gazes for a charged moment before the Dark One nods and descends to the hold of the ship. With the magician gone, the black hounds visibly relax their watch; but for Killian, there is no such relief. He shouldn't have underestimated his foe's ability to sniff out a weakness, to discover and exploit a long-cherished desire.

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_Killian had spent more than two hours armed with a mop and bucket, sopping the blood off the decks of the __**Bonny Vengeance**__. And then, Roberts had gleefully decided that a thorough swabbing was in order, thrusting the sand bucket and largest scouring stone into the boy's hands. Mercifully for his back, he'd gained enough balance and strength to not drop either. The first mate scowled, always eager for any excuse to punish young Jones. He stalked away toward the pile of booty accumulated in the center of the deck, grumbling and cursing his ill luck. Killian glared at his back for a moment, hatred evident in the hard set of his face. In the year and more since his father disappeared in the night, he had witnessed much cruelty and barbarism whenever they fought and captured a prize, but had never been allowed to participate in the actual fighting._

_ However, the boy had learned, among other things, a lesson in patience by then. He knew that it would only be a matter of time before he would be given a sword or a dirk, commanded to fight. The sailors often told stories to him, shared odds and ends of the many things both man and boy need to know to survive intact after months at sea. A quick lad could slip a dagger up between the ribs, and in the midst of sword clashes and cannon smoke, he'd get away clean with the deed. But he took his anger and frustration out on the wooden deck instead because there was nothing he could do until the opportune moment arose. Killian observed the final slaughter of some of the wounded with a detached, jaded eye and the negotiations of the remainder of the prisoners with curiosity._

_ One survivor in particular seemed to have offended Roberts in some way and intrigued Captain Read at the same time. Killian could sympathize with the poor bastard—the captain's insistence on keeping the lad hadn't made his life any easier and had directed many a whipping and beating his way from the first mate. As if think about the devil had conjured him, the boy softly cried out when a steel-toed boot crushed down on his hand. For good measure, Roberts ground the metal point into the soft flesh between the bones, looking for any sign of weakness. "Cap be wanting a word, Rat!"_

_ "Aye, sir." He kept his eyes averted and refused to give any sign of the pain that shot through his hand. He hated that nickname beyond anything else, but Roberts would never give it up if he ever discovered how much it bothered Killian. He walked over to the helm where Read stood watching both him and the prisoner. The man looked old and tired, clearly not used to the company of pirates or being at their mercy. Captain Read flicked her hand for them both to follow and lead them down to her quarters. Once behind closed doors, she motioned for Killian to get a chair and poured a glass of brandy for their "guest."_

_ "This be the lad. Ye'll find he's canny an' quick, hasna picked up too many o' the crew's habits yet and I'd keep it tha' way. Teach 'im the basics, aye, but also the manners an' graces, as ye' would one o' them spoilt bairns of the gentry."_

_ "I beg your pardon, madam, but why on earth would I condescend to agree to your proposal? I hardly think that my life is worth being shackled to your disreputable vessel in order to educate some sea-dog's by-blow."_

_ "Ye'll find that I can be quite persuasive when I wants summat, fadre. Even pirates can find uses fer a fine scholarly bloke, like yerself. Ye'll do as I arsk and be young Killian's teacher."_

_ "What?! Cap Read, ma'am, no offense meant, but I don't want nothing to do with books and such. Roberts and some of the others hate me enough as it is. You make me learn things and spend time with a priest? They say priests are unluckier than women and children combined!"_

"_I don't gie a damn what ye want, Jones, and ye best remember tha'. Leave us awhile, fadre." The old man executed a formal, stiff bow, but complied and left the cabin. "Look 'ere, lad. Ye're young'un yet, but one o' these days, ye won't be beholden to me no more. I canna make ye do aught, but ye need ta keep an eye to the future. Yer Da… he's the past, boy; might as well be dead t'ye. I've an inklin' to making more than just a pirate out o' ye. The fadre can teach ye things—things a gennelman would know. Now, this can make ye quite useful to yer Cap'n. More important, lad, ye need ta ken how ta use them brains best. I kin see tha' ye'll grow inta a fine lookin' man, but ye'll need more than a pretty face and skill with a blade if I'm ta make ye inta cap'n material."_

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It's been years since he's even thought about his father, having taken Read's advice and burying him deep in the past. But even pirates, especially orphans, have questions about where they come from, even if they call no particular place their home. And Killian has never questioned his father's stories about his mother's death. He remembers flashes—a smile, a scrap of yellowed lace, blue eyes the same as his—but he has nothing solid, no tangible memento or memory of the woman who gave him life. To know who he is, to understand where he is from… Rumplestiltskin couldn't have chosen a more delicately or perfectly crafted temptation for Killian Jones.

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"Are you certain that this is the best way, Hecate? He's already been through so much. I need your guarantee that he won't end up broken by this."

"Emma, my dear, you know that I can't promise such a thing. Whether or not your Captain breaks is entirely up to him. You know this man better than anyone; he _must_ be tested. Not for your sake, but for his own. He needs to believe in himself, in his own worth; he'll never truly trust that he and you belong together, he'll never fully heal, until he knows who is and proves that he can be the man he wants to be. He has faith in you; have a little faith in him."


	22. Pixies, Pirates, and Pans

It seems entirely appropriate—destined even—that their one and only shot at rescuing Henry and defeating Pan will take place under the shadow of Skull Rock. As ever, Killian warns them all, the stories do no justice to the eerie majesty of Neverland's dominant feature—it is an entire mountain, a twisted and treacherous crag. Even before the sun starts to rise behind it and emphasizes the peak's darkness, they all can feel a terrifying chill settle into their guts and bones. The closer the Jolly Roger gets, the cold only grows and burrows itself deeper into their souls. Skull Rock cuts the island at an awkward angle, leaving a relatively small section of land isolated from the rest, but there are still miles of dense jungle between the beach and the old Indian encampment. Once, there would have been fishing boats and small shade huts for drying the day's catch all along the shoreline. But now they can only see a few piles of partially burned thatch or the bleached-white bones of a canoe randomly littering the pristine shell beach. No footprints, no drag marks in the sand—nothing speaks to a human presence on this island save these insignificant pieces of detritus and debris.

Emma watches Killian as his eyes scan the stretch of the shore and wonders, not for the first time, what life was like for him here. She has asked, of course, but she sensed that many of the memories and answers were painful or clouded by his dark, bitter rage. But she doesn't need to read his eyes to know that right now, he's keenly feeling the loss of the people he befriended during the eight centuries he lived in this world. His shoulders are tensed as if battle-ready, and his fist and jaw are clenched tightly. But more importantly, they are so attuned now that she can _feel_ the pain, anger, and sorrow that are roiling through his mind and body; his suffering has become hers to bear as well. Her throat and chest constrict viciously, stealing her breath but allowing a choked sob to escape. As a mother, she can't help but worry; as a lover, she's powerless against the fear of loss. So much of their plan can be thwarted in an instant by forces far beyond themselves… Will this be the last time she sees him like this? Will both of them survive this war that they've been dragged into? She does her best to put on her armor, the impenetrable walls that used to keep out fear and hurt; and yes, she can push aside much of the anxiety, but not all of it disappears. Back when the curse hadn't been broken, Mary Margaret had said that Emma's walls kept her safe and kept out love. In letting Henry and her parents and now Killian inside, she is no longer impervious to dread; she's terrified of losing them.

But the beautiful irony of it all is that she turns her fear against itself; her troubled thoughts of loss and sorrow strengthen her resolve to win, empower her determination to defeat a god at his own game. Emma never knew just how true her own words were when she told Cora that love was not a liability of a weakness; she can face what's ahead, in spite of doubts and fears, _because_ of the love she has allowed to blossom and grow in her life. She just also hopes that when all is said and done, she can be forgiven for doing what she has to in order to protect what's hers.

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_ "Let's dispense with the pleasantries, majesties. I think you both know or suspect that my sister and I are more than we seem." Regina looks over at Snow, who appears shocked at the change in tone and voice that's happened in the little girl over the last few seconds. She really is far too naïve for a royal who had to fight for her crown, but she also doesn't know or feel magic. The queen had sensed the power and… difference that rolled off of the children in waves from the moment she first saw them in the clearing. She just doesn't know the reasons behind the deception of the appearance of smaller physical forms._

_ "I could sense as much, but tell me, my dear… Why the ruse? Who does it benefit?"_

_ "Our primary concern was with keeping the conjuror in the dark. Although she __**can**__ control him, my sister has qualms about denying people their free-will. However, she also didn't want us to announce ourselves to him and so shielded who we really are. We do not trust his motives, but since it is your son whose life hangs in the balance, we knew that we could trust you. And you and your husband, of course; any Maiden Huntress so thoroughly devoted to my art can be trusted implicitly." Dinah's smile is both radiant and slightly patronizing when she pats Snow on the head. Her one-time rival's look is positively priceless in its confusion that Regina can't stop the laugh that bubbles up her throat._

_ "This is hardly the time for humor, witch. The fate of all the realms hangs upon our success or failure. Snow White does not have your cunning, but her purity of mind brings its own form of strength with it. She can see many things because they are right in front of her, which you cannot because you are blinded by the intricacy of your knowledge of subterfuge and craft. Hers is the quick thrust of the blade, yours the slow agony of poison. Each method can achieve much on its own, but only together can they be truly invincible; rather like the pirate and the Soteria."_

_ "Artemis, the maiden huntress… Goddess of the untamed wilderness, sister of Apollo, keeper of the woodlands and the hunt. My mother once read me stories about you." Snow looks at the little girl with undisguised wonder. Despite being a character of fairytales and legend herself, she has a difficult time processing the existence of a mythical goddess._

_ "Eva was given those tales so that your knowledge for this moment in time would be complete. Your Rhuel Gorm was created by Hecate as a way to balance magic in the realms; fairies were first brought into being as a neutral race, neither malicious nor benevolent. But my sister loves her creatures too much, I am afraid. Like you humans, the fair folk were given free-will; thus, magic has become…strained. Too much light is as harmful as too much darkness—the worlds require both in order to continue existing._

_ "Regina, my sister and I have already shared our plans with the Savior and her pirate. Now, we must share it with you as well. I am sorry, your majesty, but you will not remember this conversation. It's for the best." The little girl places a finger against Snow's forehead; the woman goes absolutely still, as if frozen._

_ The Queen pulls back from the child, quickly rising from her seat. "What did you just do?! Stay away from me!"_

_ She sighs, but then a strange glowing pours out from her skin, causing Regina to shade her eyes. When the light fades, a lithe young woman stands in place of the girl, wearing a leaf-green toga. "When you hear what I have to say, then you will understand. We haven't much time, witch queen. Do you remember what the Dark One told you all, about Pan needing a willing sacrifice? Henry is a special boy for many reasons, but his potential for magic is the same as that of a fairy. He is a Neutral, spawned by the product of True Love and a man touched by the blackest of powers. His abilities will be limitless, if he chooses to wield them. We cannot risk Pan taking over his body and making that decision for your child._

_ "Thankfully, Pan does not yet know this. He believes that any willing body with untrained magical potential will do. So, Emma Swan will be the sacrifice. Hecate has trained her for the last month in order that she may keep Pan distracted long enough for we goddesses to ensnare him in a web. This web will not hold him forever, but it will contain him, in the savior's body, long enough for us to construct a new prison."_

_ "I still don't understand the need for secrecy. Why can't the others know about this?"_

_ The goddess suddenly appears like the ancient she is—weary and heart-sick. "Because, rather like your sleeping curse, Emma will be trapped inside her own mind in the process. And she will remain locked in the prison of her own body, with Pan, until we can draw him and the web out of her. Only you and Emma can know the whole of this; you, because your task will not be to fight, but to run. We will find a way to get you to Henry, and no matter how much you may be tempted by him to do otherwise, you must immediately bring him back here. My uncle will protect you and the ship, so that Pan will not find his way here. Denied Henry, he will go after the savior. And then, we will have him. For obvious reasons, we do not trust Rumplestiltskin with this knowledge; but if the pirate or her parents know the full truth before it is too late, they will stop at nothing to convince Emma not to do this. Once it is done and Pan has been contained, then they can know."_

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Thankfully, the massive dogs have very little problem swimming to the shore, making a second trip in the lifeboat unnecessary. The sun finally breaks over the horizon as they beach the smaller craft, painting the scene in shades of gold, orange, and red. Emma walks over to one of the ruined fishing huts, taking in the sense of sadness, violence, and righteous anger that radiates off of the rubble. Places, especially things built and maintained by people, have a sort of psychic signature—they soak in the memories and emotions of the humans and creatures who made use of them. Because these structures and their creators were maliciously destroyed, those final moments stand out in the "mind" like a victim remembering a crime against them. And for someone sensitive or magically gifted, these feelings practically shout to be heard and acknowledged. She looks over at Killian, who is talking with her father and mother. _I may not have known you, but you were important to him somehow. For him, for all of you, Pan and his brats will pay. Rest easy now; lay your ghosts to rest._ A sighing wind ruffles the pile of thatch and plays with the leaves of the nearby trees. Her promise has been heard.

A familiar pair of arms wraps around her waist and pulls her against a hard, yet entirely comfortable chest. Emma breathes deep as his scent and warmth surround her with calm and peace; but a tug of regret, of anger, and of agony accompanies the happier emotions, and she cannot be anything except grateful that he isn't burdened yet with the knowledge that she is. It seems so strange, wanting to give a centuries old pirate a few more hours of blissful ignorance. "It's time to go, lass. If we're to have the advantage in the battle, we'll need to be ready sooner."

She turns in his arms, placing her hands on his chest. "Do you really think we can win this? What if-" Killian leans forward, touching his forehead to hers.

"I know we can, Emma. Pan fights for power; we're fighting for family. That makes all the difference in the world, love. I promised you that I would do all in my power to return your boy to your arms, and that was before we admitted what bloody, blind fools we were being. Now, have a little faith in us, Emma. You know I'd die before I let any harm come to your Henry."

Her arms reflexively tighten, and she slips her hands up to his face. "You listen to me, Killian Jones. I don't want to hear you say anything like that ever again. I need you to _live_ for me." Her kiss is desperate, wild and full of fear, rather like when she alone stayed on the ship after their first night together. He moans around her tongue and grips her closer, wishing selfishly for a moment that a bedroom were handy and danger not quite so imminent. He wants to comfort and reassure her, to shower her in pleasure and bliss in order to banish the shadows and sorrows that have clouded over. But for all his many wasted years, the one commodity, the one luxury that they do not have right now is time. He breaks their kiss gently, reluctantly, but firmly and holds her face in his hand.

"Save those thoughts for a bit later, aye lass? After your boy is safe, and we are on our way back home… well, let's just say that I'll think of this as a promise for what I can expect tonight." His infuriatingly smug smirk lights up his features, and Emma can't help but smile. She also pushes him away roughly, muttering something about insatiable pirates before trying to walk away from him. But she doesn't get far before he catches up and wraps his hand around hers, interlacing their fingers together. Thankfully, she's looking at the tide rolling in and the crashing waves against the shore, so Killian neither sees nor hears the broken trembling of her breath. She wants more than anything to keep that promise to him; her heart shatters again at the lie she's been living for the last month, desperately loving him while keeping a secret that just might tear them apart forever. It doesn't matter that the goddesses' plan will save his life because the repercussions of it can just as easily destroy him, can make him turn again to a life of darkness, vengeance, and despair. He only moments ago asked her to have faith, but Emma finds that believing in herself to be enough to keep him in the light requires a kind of hope she isn't sure she possesses.

"_We will be with him, Soteria. But so will you. If you have so little faith in yourself, have more in him and in the power and depth of his love. Destiny is a living, breathing thing."_ The words echo forcefully in Emma's head, resonating as if spoken by dozens of voices all at once, all dripping with conviction and divine strength. A wind, charged with magic, ripples around and between her and Killian; she feels it flow from her body into his, and vice versa, but she can also See it glowing as if it were a tangible, visible ribbon connecting them completely, from the spiritual to the molecular level. For a moment, she leaves her own body and finds herself inside of his, feeling everything that he does and hearing his thoughts. She quickly pulls away, unwilling to intrude or invade his privacy. But the moment of complete union with him bolsters her confidence in their plan and in what they are. Killian Jones and Emma Swan are not only kindred spirits, but soul mates—True Loves in the purest sense of the words. And though they both have experienced something like it before, they were destined to have this connection with each other. The Universe, destiny, fate… whatever you want to call it, it has brought them together for a reason; Emma just needs to have faith that it will bring them back to each other.

"Tick tock, dearies! We really don't have time for a romantic tropical interlude, so what say we start walking in the _appropriate_ direction, Miss Swan?" Leave it to Rumplestiltskin to interrupt her life-altering moment of clarity regarding the ordering of the cosmos with a snarky, innuendo-laden comment about her relationship with his enemy. Granted, she understands and sympathizes with the fact that he and Killian will never be drinking buddies, but the Dark One seems less inclined to let go of their past antagonism than the man who spent over 800 years in exile in a hell dimension. Arguments could be made in favor of one of them or the other, but Gold has consistently acted like the more-injured party, both in Storybrooke and then here in Neverland. Clearly, whatever grievances he has with the pirate, they have not been forgiven or forgotten; which made the deal with the goddesses even more vital to Emma's well-being.

Rumplestiltskin, not content any longer to hang back and let others do all the heavy lifting, spins the handle of his cane counterclockwise. A loud click sounds before the ringing of steel against metal and leather; no one is exactly surprised at learning that he's had a concealed blade on him all this time. He begins hacking at the leaves and vines like the madman he truly is, letting Regina trail behind him as she severs the foliage magically. As usual, their progress is slow, the jungle fighting them every step of the way. Killian and Emma cover the rear of their group, swords drawn to ward off attackers. But there's something else in the air today, something more than just the typical foreboding and mistrust he has in the plants of Neverland. Jones can feel anger pulsing around them, and he's fairly certain that the vines destroyed by the two magic wielders up front have completely regenerated and are hemming them in. Swan must sense it too, because she moves around to his left and pushes his hook and his sword down with her right hand. Her eyes are glowing faintly at the edges and her stare is distant, as if listening to something he can't quite hear yet.

Suddenly, she crouches and sweeps his feet out from under him, catching his fall with a current of Air. Her right hand flips up and open as she sends more Air to do the same for her parents, but it's already too late. The vines have woken with a vengeance and have started attacking Regina, Rumplestiltskin, David, and Snow. "Killian, please stay down! Don't provoke them!" The goddesses are nowhere to be seen, but they can hear the racket of the Black Dogs all around them; the jungle has separated them from any divine aid, which means that Emma is on her own. More vines lash themselves like living ropes around the struggling royals and magician. Deadly climbers begin to creep along the thicker branches, seeking out the throats of their victims; faster than the eye can see, eerily familiar bright blue flowers being to bud and then blossom. She pulls on her magic to center herself, breathing Air in deeply.

If she were forced to describe it later, she would say that she had a conversation with the angry plants. She doesn't think, so much as feel an apology that she sends out from her body to the forest. _?!_ Surprise and confusion are the "response" that she gets back. _"What the bloody hell is happening, love? What are you doing?"_

_ "Umm… Trying to let them know we come in peace? I think I'm communicating with them, sort of. Less distraction though, please!"_ She continues to send out waves of regret and apology, while also projecting images of their group walking through the jungle. She also lends urgency, making the mental picture of their group act as if they are running and searching for something. In all of the images, no one touches the plants or more importantly harms them in any way. She gets another impression of questioning from the vines, which thankfully have stopped producing or forcing the growth of the _cyanids_, which are perilously close to blossoming. She sends a mental plea, begging them for their forgiveness and help—and out of all the strange and fucked-up things that have happened in Emma Swan's life so far, this moment has to take the cake. Slowly at first, but then with increasing speed, the creeper and vines and trees begin to pull back; Snow and David actually get placed on the ground, but the jungle voices its displeasure by dropping Regina and then Gold from more significant heights. She runs to her parents first, ensuring that they are alright, but then immediately back to Killian.

"I'm so sorry! I just needed to know that you were safe, and I didn't know what I would have done if-" He puts a finger against her lips to shut her up, and then starts laughing at the expression on her face.

"You just bloody well convinced an entire forest not only _not_ to kill us all, but to help us! How could I be mad at you, you infuriating, astounding, magical woman?"

Emma quirks up a half smile at this. "Well, I did knock you flat on your ass before I managed that." But then his lips are on hers, soft and reassuring. She's not sure that she'll ever get used to the way he kisses her or the way he looks at her sometimes, as if he can't contain his wonder that she's real.


	23. The Beginning of the End

When they collect the rest of their group, Trinity gives Emma a nod of approval; rather than simply convincing the jungle to not attack, she has somehow managed to convince it to aid them because where once were trees and plants blocking them there is now an avenue about ten feet across headed straight for the encampment. Everyone else, the Dogs included stare at her with a mixture of pride and wonder, except for Rumplestiltskin, whose face reveals a touch of panic and envy. She clears her throat uncomfortably and looks around warily at the trees and vines. "Ummm… Thank you?"

Her family laughs at that, dispelling some of the tension. But the moment ends quickly when one of the Dogs begins to howl; it's a mournful, blood-chilling sound that echoes loudly, and when the others join in, it's as gut-wrenching as the sobbing of Neverland's trapped children. Dinah stands next to her hunter, Actaeon, and places a soothing touch to his shoulder. "We haven't much time. Pan's minions are closer than we feared; hurry now."

With preternatural speed, the child and Dog begin sprinting down the path created for them by the jungle. Trinity and her hounds quickly follow suit, and with no concern for their own safety or guarding their backs, the crew of the Jolly Roger quickly falls in line behind the children. The trail is mercifully free of roots and branches to trip them up, but the normal rise and fall of the land still keeps them to a slower lope than Emma would like; if Pan is closer than anticipated, it means less time for them to set up their ambush. She sends a tendril of thought to the tress, an image of Henry as she last saw him, but being dragged through the jungle instead of Storybrooke's docks. She gets a fleeting feeling of sadness and…regret? As if the flora would like to help her, but cannot. She doesn't understand the why, but she sends another wave of thanks to the plants anyway. She returns her focus to running, occasionally shooting a glance in Killian's direction. His face is often alight with a bit of a grin, as if he enjoys the freedom of being in constant motion. She catalogues this look away in her mind, along with all of the other expressions of his that she cherishes and has been quietly setting down in her mind, because not even the goddesses know when she'll see him again.

If time meant anything, it takes them about two hours of solid jogging to reach the encampment, and what they find disturbs them immensely. It's as if the massacre of the Indians happened only moments before. Bodies lie in pools of bright red blood, and the various structures still give off an acrid smoke. Every face is twisted and contorted in a final scream, as if they cannot escape the violence of their killers even in death. The only blessing is that there are no small children or infants among the dead. Some of the villagers' bodies have the wounds one might expect from primitive weapons—slit throats, stab and arrow wounds—but others have blood trailing out of their mouths, noses, eyes, and ears. Still others look as if their bones were pulverized, crushed under some sort of massive object. These corpses are not only singled out by their bizarre appearance, but by the fact that they are huddled or heaped together in some fashion, as if they were herded up by something or someone and were the last to die. "What the hell happened here?"

"The pixies. Seems like they cast a spell to keep the remains just as they are; perhaps as a warning to whoever might be foolish enough to come here, dearie. I can feel their magic mincing and prancing around on the air, which means they're close. We might have more enemies on our hands than just the Lost Ones." Rumplestiltskin sounds positively gleeful at the thought of all the bloodshed and chaos that is sure to come. His cheeriness sounds off to Emma, discordant and disturbing; to everyone else, he sounds much more like the Dark One of old, the wicked, puckish, and unpredictable Imp returning to the fore.

"I meant the pancaked corpses, but now that you mention it…" Mercifully, whatever was cast over the bodies not only preserved them where they fell, but also kept out decay and predators, so no foul odors assault them as they move through the macabre, silent encampment. Emma sincerely hopes that whoever has Henry knows about this place and will try to avoid it; there are some things that should never be seen anyway, but which could utterly destroy a child's innocence forever. The plan is to head for a large cavern that opens up in the base of Skull Rock—it has served as a refuge for the Lost Ones before, according to the girls and Killian, but it's also virtually impregnable. Which means that if they can get there first, they will command the high ground and every advantage against their enemies. But first, they plan on setting up pitfalls and other traps to take out anyone they possibly can.

Snow, Dinah, and David work on selecting several trees close together and getting all their weapons set in easy to reach nooks, so that the archers can hopefully keep the element of surprise a bit longer. Regina and Rumplestiltskin quickly dig pits using magic, then concealing them with simple spells; while Trinity, Killian, and Emma go old school and set up trip wires and snares. The dogs had melted away into the underbrush almost as soon as they started working on their ambush—the creatures are their scouts, but they are also clearly wary of the gray-white mountain. It isn't until their group gets close to the cavern that Emma discovers exactly why no one feels comfortable around Skull Rock. Hecate had told her during their lessons that magic feeds or fuels life, but that life also sustains magic in turn; a sort of cosmic recycling system for vitality and energy. In Neverland, this happens a little more literally.

The rock that forms the towering peak isn't really rock at all. It's bone; human bones to be specific. Oh, there are certainly bands of a dark gray stone of some kind, threading its way in between the rib cages, the outstretched finger bones, the yawning jaw bones that seem ready to avalanche down onto them. She can Hear crying and moaning, a desperate keening that pierces soul deep; there's more than just physical remains fused into the mountain. Thousands, millions of minds brush against hers, clamoring for her attention in an overwhelming shout for help. "Dead men tell no tales, love, especially once Neveland's got a hold of you. This is what happens to you if you die here. Not the most pleasant of journey's endings in my humble opinion."

His eyes look grim, staring at the mountain of skeletal remains without really seeming to see it. She knows he's searching for his lost friends, the Indians, his suicidal crew among the skulls and other bones. She wishes she could comfort him in some way, but the crying dead are still far too present to her magical senses for it to even sound like the truth. Trinity, David, Rumplestiltskin, and Regina are already climbing, trying to find the best places to conceal themselves among the smaller cliff faces and boulders at the massive cavern entrance. Snow and Dinah are already concealed high among the trees. The moment of truth has come, and Emma's only fear is that she will let everyone down by not doing the right thing when she needs to. Because, almost more than anything, she does not want to leave Killian Jones' side for one second, let alone however long… On that desperate, forlorn thought, she tugs on the stiff leather lapel of his coat and pulls him down to her for a kiss. He's startled at first, but then quickly recovers, gliding his lips sensually with hers. She ends it far sooner than she wants too, panting hard and pressing her face into his chest. "For luck, Killian. Be safe, don't do anything stupid, and promise me one last time that we can do this."

He smiles at her, touched to the core that she not only cares for him, but trusts in him, in them. He has the power to encourage her, to give her faith when she doubts, and she'll believe it when he tells her that together they are unbeatable. "We _will_ do this, Emma love. We will rescue your son and put this hell behind us for good come sundown."

A cold breeze stirs the trees, echoes and screams through the bones and the rocks along the mountain and in the cavern. In the distance, the Black Moon Dogs howl. The signal they've all been waiting for—someone is coming.

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Henry is tired of being carried around like a backpack. Not that anyone has bothered to listen to him whenever he complains about it. They just tell him that they will move more quickly this way, that his shorter legs will slow them down. Never mind the fact that the younger Lost Ones seem to be doing just fine. In the aftermath of the attack and the sprint through the jungle, Greg had managed to get to one of the pre-arranged rendezvous points scattered across the island. They had rested only a few moments, quickly leaving some sort of signal for others; eventually, battered and bleeding, adults and children alike had started joining their long hike to "the Rock." The Shadow is nowhere in sight though, and no one has mentioned seeing Father Peter since this whole nightmare began. Every now and then, scouts have been sent out that haven't returned, which means that something is still out there that isn't too friendly. All total, there are about twenty Lost Ones, plus Henry, when they catch the first glimpses of the mountain.

The howling dogs are the only warning they get. From the sides, the pixie warriors charge in, swords and spears upraised and ready to draw blood. Henry clings tighter to Greg's back, knowing that of all the people and creatures here, he's the one with the greatest reasons to keep him safe. In short order and with very little communication among them, Greg and the five strongest and most able of the Lost Ones break away from the rest and put on an extra burst of speed to make it to the cavern of Skull Rock. It's a desperate scramble to find some sort of safe haven, especially considering that a smaller yet still determined group of pixies has managed to track and follow them. Balls of light and fire flash through the air, exploding all around them and setting the jungle ablaze again. Henry's personal bodyguards break pattern, engaging their pursuers in duels to the death. The jungle is alive with magic and people, but he can never see the creatures that are chasing them down. The truth is that Greg is only a man, and the forces ranged against him are more than he can stand to face alone.

Dying screams and ululations of victory ring out ominously in the semi-darkness of the trees. But then his name is ringing out from every side, voices both strange and familiar. A chorus practically chanting his name—Henry, Henry, Henry!

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Once they had climbed into their positions in the trees, Artemis had dropped her childish persona. Hidden away among the leaves, they aren't exactly concerned with Rumplestitltskin's prying eyes anymore. It wasn't long before they heard a snap, followed by a loud crash and then a scream of agonizing pain—the first pit trap had claimed a victim. Snow flinches, keenly aware that whoever fell in will probably die very slowly in there; she's desperate to go and end the person's suffering, but a voice speaks directly into her mind. _"Stay put, my huntress. He deserves his fate. Remember, if you spot a child wearing a red armband, they are one of the Lost Children and are on our side. Avoid harming them if you can. Now, be ready."_ The goddess' words are hardly comforting or reassuring—listening to someone suffer from several broken bones is a far from pleasant thing. Within a minute of the trap being sprung, a pair of grey, gaunt pixies stealthily comes in to view. Clearly intent on reaching the cavern, they still approach with caution, blades at the ready.

Snow had forgotten just how repulsive evil fairies were—like dead or sickly birch trees that decided to get up and start walking one day. Their faces are twisted and wrinkled like knots in the bark, but their transparent, luminescent wings remind her of their former beauty and glory. More like a monarch butterfly's wings in size and shape than a dragonfly's, they vary in color depending on the fairy and what crime condemned them to an eternity in hell. She and Artemis take their time, studying their targets' movements, and once they have them fully set in their sights, they release their arrows simultaneously. Snow's arrow goes straight through the eye, and the goddess' through the throat; neither pixie makes much noise when they fall to the ground, one already dead and the other choking on blood. Once the second fairy finally rattles out his last breath, Artemis uses her power to fetch back their arrows, preserving as many of the missiles as she can for when they will need them most. For first kills, they are relatively easy; it's once their enemies are moving faster or have spotted them in their tree stands that they will really be challenged.

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Regina can feel the fairies coming closer, because their magic is distinctive and noxious, radiating out like an oil spill into the ocean. She also knows when Snow and Artemis make their kills because the power drains away from the bodies and flows off into the earth, a ripple effect that can be Felt along the magical currents of the realm. If Pan didn't already know that the pixies were on their way, then he does now. Something echoes in the distance, like erratic heartbeats or drums. She repeats her mission over and over in her mind: get to Henry and get out, get to Henry and get out. She still feels a vague uneasiness about this plan the goddesses have concocted. She knows what Emma is going to do, but she can't tell Henry about it; let him come to his own conclusion, he'll need you more than ever. But it still smacks of lying to him, and she's been trying so hard not to do that. _Mothers lie to protect their children, Regina; if he knew what Emma intends to do, won't that make him rush to put himself in harm's way? He's already had a chance to be a hero, let him grow up a little more before he tries it again._

The rocks and bones begin to rattle as the drumbeats get closer. No, not drums—the aftershocks of explosions. Somewhere in the jungle, several some ones are fighting and at least one side is using magic. Which means that Pan's band of ragtag Lost Ones is under attack by the pixies. Bursts and bolts of light become visible in the openings of the trees, indicating that they are very close to the clearing even now and that some of their enemies should be within range of the traps soon enough. Screams echo back between the trees and mountain, chilling her mother's heart and warming her inner ruthlessness. Yes, let them burn, let them suffer pain and misery for daring to touch her son! Even if she has no hand in the slaughter, she can relish the carnage from a distance, with Henry safe and sound. Protecting her son is what matters most; any bloodshed that happens while doing so is a bonus.

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David steals a glance at Emma, watching his daughter prepare for the fight of her life. He remembers the night she was born, how fragile and tiny she looked wrapped in her blanket and her mother's arms. He remembers holding her tightly while he fought off the Queen's guards and carried her to the wardrobe in her nursery. He and Snow had picked every toy, every cloth, every decoration with love and care for their longed-for child; yet the only part of it she would ever touch was that enchanted wardrobe that never should have been there in the first place. His kiss to her downy, still wet forehead and whispered plea that she would find them were more prayers to unknown gods than expressions of faith. Something had broken inside him the day they learned that they wouldn't be able to escape as a family, but he had carefully hidden it from his wife, buried the pain and brokenness beneath his belief in True Love.

So, he knows that his daughter is hiding something from them. He's seen that look in his own face in the mirror, in the dark of night when he didn't have to pretend that the weight of a kingdom and a looming Curse wasn't beating him down. He sensed the desperation in Emma's kiss with Jones just minutes ago, seeing the stray tear and the tension that never left her jaw. His daughter's wall is back up, to protect them all from the truth of what's killing her inside; he knows it because once upon a time, and even now, he had walls as high as hers. But David also knows that whatever her plan is, he cannot stop her; he cannot even put a hand on her shoulder, or hug her tightly and tell her that whatever it is, he understands and supports her. Because he knows that she has her reasons for keeping it a secret, and that the others might not be as empathetic as him.

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"This is for you, Bae. We're going to save your son." Rumplestiltskin keeps repeating this aloud to himself, while on the inside, a darker voice reminds him of the prophecy. _The boy will be your undoing_. No matter what the seer actually meant, he's quite sure that he will manage to survive somehow. After all, he's cheated death on more than one occasion and in many a different way. And what's more, he has a reason to return home—Belle. Maybe he'd put it on a little too thick at the docks, hinting that he might have to die here in Neverland in order to save Henry. But what better way to ensure the fidelity of a beautiful, vibrant woman like her, than to make her believe that their parting was final? At the very least, if she really does love him as she continues to claim, then she will honor his memory with a lengthy time of mourning. And then, when he returns, singed perhaps yet safe all the same, will she not leap back into his welcoming arms? Even happier than before on account of his unexpected homecoming? The image his brain conjures at these thoughts fills him with almost as much excitement as the prospect of death, mayhem, and chaos that—if his ears do not deceive him—is making its merry way toward Skull Rock. Now, if only these pesky little souls would cease their shrieking about how they died…

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Killian and Emma are hidden behind a large boulder at the east side of the entrance to the cavern, while David and Trinity are hidden among the scattered rocks near the top. All of them are tensed and ready with swords drawn. While he's certainly not doubting the goddess' fighting skills, Jones does question her decision to remain in the smaller physical form of a child. She had shrugged and enigmatically said something about the element of surprise. Based on the sounds coming from the jungle, he's fairly certain that their presence here probably won't be much of a shocker to anyone.

A lone figure breaks from the tree line, running as if the hounds of hell are on his trail. And for all intents and purposes, they are, because about fifty pixie warriors spill out of the jungle after him. Flames and sparks fly in the air, but so do arrows that pierce the throats, chests, and eyes of many of the fairies. That's when Killian realizes that the man running toward them is none other than Greg, and that Henry is desperately clinging to his back. Element of surprise be damned! He roars out the lad's name and begins running toward to melee.

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The second Snow recognizes Greg, she nocks an arrow and sends it speeding toward the creatures chasing him. Another arrow is on its way before she can consciously form the thought to reach for the next one from her quiver. Three fairies fall in rapid succession, but she doubts that it's going to be enough. She hears someone yelling, but she can't afford the distraction because Henry is clinging to the man's back. Pixies and humans of various sizes and shapes all spill out into the clearing, many still trying to make it to the cavern, but all of them fighting each other. Soon, she can barely see who or what she's aiming at. Hundreds of beings are all dying, desperately trying to live, to save themselves. Snow sends several of them to their deaths, eyes filling with tears because she's lost sight of Greg and Henry.


	24. Fierce as a Mother's Love

In the end, Snow White is the one who pieces together all that happened during the battle of Skull Rock.

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Rumplestiltskin remains on his perch on the mountainside, content to cast random spells at the churning mass below him. He cursed the utter foolishness of the pirate, the prince, and the savior for revealing their locations too soon. Really, did they have no faith in the Dark One's ability to manage affairs from above? Truth be told, he could end the miserable existence of every creature in the clearing now locked in various battles to the death. He sees Mendell struggling to gather a group of Lost Ones sufficient to protect Henry. He tilts his head curiously to the side. What exactly _is_ so special about his grandson? Clearly he's precocious, but that hardly makes him unique in any world. There must be something that sets him apart, surely. With a giggle and a careless wave of his hand, he turns the pirate's current nemesis into a snail, throwing Hook off-balance and sending him sliding through the blood-saturated mud.

He's managed to survive quite a few things over his long centuries, so he's quickly aware of the sounds of a stealthy approach. Oh, whoever is attempting to catch him off guard is very good indeed, but it will take more than mere skull-climbing skills to best the Dark One. When the fairy (he can tell by the stench) is ready to strike, Rumplestiltskin disappears in a puff of red smoke. He moves directly behind his attacker, sword at the ready. "You'll have to be cleverer than that to catch me without my wits about me, dearie."

The fairy's dark purple wings flutter gently, almost keeping time with her breathing. She keeps her face averted, head cocked to the side for a moment, as if assessing her options. But when she finally speaks, it's with a voice from long ago. "Oh, there's plenty of cleverness to me, Rumple. The question is, do you have it in you to kill me again?"

When she turns to face him, she looks exactly like Milah down to the clothes she died in. The only difference lies in the massive butterfly wings protruding from her back. The shock of seeing her hated, yet beloved face is nearly his undoing, as the pixie immediately goes in for the kill. "Surprised to see me here, husband? I came to remind you that you failed our son, and for that, it's your turn to die."

"Milah was many things, but one of the fairies, she was not. No… you may look like her and sound like her, but you are something else altogether." He blocks her blade, flicking it aside with ease. But then their dance begins in earnest. His sword is rapier thin, light and flexible, while hers is more like a cutlass. He keeps her at bay, but her skills are a match for his own. "And despite her years as a pirate, she never could have lived this long against me in a fight. So who are you, really?"

The fairy seems to consider his question, backing away and circling. "No sympathy for your dead wife then? Pity. I like her better than the one the rest of you seem to trust and like so much. Really, Rumple? She's pretty, I'll give you that, but doesn't really have much spine when it comes to you and your faults. Milah, now she had guts! Telling you right to your face what an unlovable coward you really are."

A shimmer of light and dust radiates from her wings, causing her to glow. When it fades, the pixie is the spitting image of Belle when they parted ways on the Storybrooke docks. Her appearance overrides his sense of self-preservation, and he lowers his sword for a moment to stare in wonder. It's all the opening she needs to attack; he deflects most of the power behind her blow, but she still manages to nick him just below his ribs on the left hand side. Pain and anger fuel his rage, as the face of his Belle looks at him in scorn and derision, looks at him the way Milah used to. He redoubles his attack, aiming for her head at every opportunity; but the pixie anticipates his rage.

"It's pathetic really, just how much she's willing to forgive you. I mean, seriously, she heard the tale directly from the pirate how you slaughtered the mother of your only child, and she just brushes that off! Does she think for one moment that you won't possibly do the same to her? Because one day, she'll cross you, and all that doubt that's been eating you up inside will rear its ugly head again. And you'll kill her. Because that's what you do to the people you love; you know you could never hold onto them, that they could never truly love you forever, and so you rip out their hearts or let them pay the price for your magic."

"Shut up!"

"Or maybe she'll stick around, just long enough to realize that you don't truly want to keep her young and beautiful forever. She'll wake up one morning, and you'll have kept a death-grip on your magic, but not on her. And she'll slowly start to hate you for being such a coward, for not having the courage to let her in all the way. And so, she'll take that dagger of yours, that precious secret that you hold so dear, and she'll bury it in your rotten, dead heart. And then she will have lovers and suitors begging for her favors, whoring herself out to the youngest and strongest and most virile men she can find. Forgetting you entirely as she reigns through all time as the new Dark One."

"I said, Shut. Up!" He smashes his fist in her face, knocking her off the edge of their little ledge. She tumbles down the side of the mountain, landing in the middle of the chaos and immediately jumping to her feet to defend herself. In another puff of smoke, Rumplestiltskin descends just behind the pixie wearing Belle's face. He reaches deep into her back, purposely causing as much pain as possible before ripping her heart out. The fairy gasps for air when he starts to squeeze. "Your name, girl. I like to know exactly who it is I'm killing."

The pixie struggles, weakly shaking her head and dropping to her knees, convulsing in agony. He squeezes tighter. "I asked for your name."

Her face becomes childish, a waifish mixture of masculine and feminine beauty. Her eyes remain the bright blue shared by both Belle and Milah, but her hair becomes a pale, white blonde. "It's Tinkerbell." Her body shudders and gives one final spasm as the Dark One crushes her heart and lets the wind sweep away the ashes from his hands.

"Now. Who else here needs killing?"

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"Damn it, Jones!" David and his daughter swear loudly before quickly following after him. He hopes the pirate knows what he's doing because otherwise, they've just lost any tactical advantage. But with the number of warriors and Lost Ones flooding into the clearing, it would have taken a siege weapon like boulders or burning oil to take care of all of these enemies. Years of swordsmanship enable David to engage immediately, his blade a fluid extension of his arm. At first, he doesn't distinguish one opponent from another, he simply reacts to whomever happens to be trying to kill him in that precise moment. Over the clash and clang of steel against steel, metal against wooden clubs, and the sounds of the dying, he hears Emma yelling at him. He reads her lips—a necessary skill in the chaos of battle—immediately changing tactics and choosing his opponents with more care.

The fairy warriors offer him more of a challenge than the ragtag, ill-trained Lost Ones, and a part of him thrills to be using his long-neglected abilities. In short order though, he realizes that his right arm is tiring rather quickly; the trick to being as good a fighter as David has become, is to work past the point of exhaustion. But because he knows that he'll be useless to his daughter and grandson if he tires too rapidly, he switches his blade to left-dominant position. There's less power behind his swings, but it gives his right arm a much needed break. The ground of the clearing has been churned up, a red clay forming out of the dust and the blood and the offal. It's one of the things they can never properly prepare you for when you train as a knight—the stench. Having lived a life on a farm—sheering and slaughtering sheep regularly—had given him a leg up, but it's human beings and fairies who are dying all around him, not animals.

He's momentarily distracted by some dive-bombing ravens, some of their claws and beaks getting in a good scratch or two before being flung back in a swirl of gold-green sparks. David hacks the head off of yet another pixie, having long ago lost count of just how many he's slain. He notices a group of Lost Ones who have formed a phalanx of some kind, a protective circle to help fend off their enemies. Curious, but not enough to stop and check things out, he continues trading blows with the Fae warriors who come up against him. There's more room to breathe, so he starts searching for his family. Snow and Dinah are still sending down a hail of arrows, but he can't see anyone else. No one from his side. He starts to panic, but then is blown back by a burst of power.

He shakes his head, trying to clear the ringing from his ears when he notices Emma on the ground. A circle of Lost Ones are fanned out around her, as if felled by the same blast that knocked him off his feet. She's writhing as if in pain and clearly is unaware and unable to defend herself. He leaps over the bodies between him and his daughter, yelling to Snow and everyone else for help. David takes a protective stance, doing his best to move in a continuous circle because the warriors have murder in their eyes now. He guesses that somehow, either Regina or Rumplestiltskin have managed to escape with Henry. And if he is still alive, then the fairies will continue to see him as a threat to their safety. He picks up Emma's sword, once again glad that he had the foresight to train himself to fight with two blades. Finally, he hears Jones' voice, calling out to Snow and getting closer.

The humming and ringing in his ears hasn't gotten any better and neither has Emma, but he's been too focused on protecting her to check and see what's wrong. In fact, the painful noise gets worse, growing in intensity until it sounds like some unholy, ear-shattering shriek of unimaginable suffering. Jones is kneeling next to her, clearly saying something, but David cannot hear over the horrible cacophony. Once again, he feels himself flung back on a jolt of pure energy, a building shockwave that's coming from his daughter. Her eyes are pure black pits and her mouth is open in a scream, as light pours out of her body. A final, blinding burst of whiteness flings itself out, convulsing the very ground, until nothing is left except silence.

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Regina immediately decides that in addition to saving Henry, she's going to enjoy ripping the heart from Greg Mendell's chest and crushing it into nothingness. It's a fitting way for him to die, really. So, she lulls him first into a sense of false security. As a noble from birth, she's never learned to defend herself. She's always had generals and soldiers and guards to fight her battles for her. But the one thing she does have is magic. So, she uses it to its best effect. Like moving pawns on a chessboard, she maneuvers the Lost Ones around him, so that Henry is afforded as much protection as possible. She does this by encircling the clearing in fire, carefully avoiding the spots where Snow and Artemis might be hiding. She knows that Emma will likely have shields of Air around them, but she hasn't gotten this far in her life by not being cautious.

She picks fairies at the edges of the melee, setting them on fire at random. She can't see them perfectly, but the sweep of destruction and dead bodies is as good a clue as any to the locations of the Prince and Hook. Emma isn't doing so bad herself; despite operating on a different magical frequency, Regina can feel when the savior's need to protect Henry blends itself with a primal, motherly rage. It's a subtle magic, but present nonetheless, guiding her sword arm to the appropriate strike points and helping her anticipate the moves of her enemies. What's strange to her, is that she feels something similar flowing through the Captain. It's not Emma's, but it's similar—just as potent, but more basic and instinctual. She watches the tides of the fight, as if following a magical string… There it is! To her surprise, the magic is emanating from the pirate himself, a rippling pale blue energy; weak compared to her own, perhaps, but there all the same. Somehow, some way, a dormant and neglected magic has found itself in the hands of the infamous Captain Hook.

Her discovery is interrupted by Pan's attack, ravens barking and cawing ominously. Tricksters and carrion birds, they are omens of death and chaos in almost every culture across every realm. They descend, worse than vultures on dead and living bodies alike, playing with their food by dropping it on unsuspecting heads. But this offensive move provides the perfect distraction; Pan is still in the air, and Henry remains protected by that foolish child. Regina transports herself to his side in an instant and shoves her hand into his chest without delay. "This is for torturing me."

She twists her hand, shifting lungs, kidneys, and intestines viciously. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies Emma, who looks on approvingly. It appears that Snow and Charming's daughter has a thirst for blood and vengeance, and the stomach to endure the consequences. Regina feels the vortex of protective power, keeping Henry safe and shielding him from seeing anything. She mouths the words to her sometimes rival: thank you. She rips the heart from Greg's chest, the pulsing pinkish-red covered in dark spots. She begins to crush it, enjoying the sight of him gasping for air like a fish out of water. "And this, this is for kidnapping my son."

He keels to the side, dead at her feet like so many of her enemies before him. She steps over his corpse and wraps Henry in her arms—Emma's magical shields recognizing her as a protector and letting her through. With a thought, she and her son are on the deck of the Jolly Roger. And then Regina can't stop her tears because Henry is safely in her arms once more. "Mom! I knew you'd come for me; I knew you all would!"

"Of course, sweetie! What is it your grandfather says? We will always find each other. Even in Neverland!" She starts laughing though her tears, unable for the first time in a long time to contain her joy. She also notices an older man standing on the deck, watching their reunion with a fond smile. His clothing is odd, yet familiar at the same time, and he has the weather-beaten face of someone who has withstood sun and storm and sea. "Let me guess… the girls' uncle?"

The man laughs, a roaring yet friendly sound. "To one of them yes. The other, well, let's just say she's a law unto herself, but we do go back a long way. The plan was successful then?"

Old eyes miss nothing, flicking to Henry, who is watching them both with curiosity. "Henry is safe, which is what was most important to all of us. As for the rest… It's in hands much more powerful than my own."

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"Damn it, Jones!" Emma and her father both curse simultaneously and start running after the pirate. But she can't really blame him for beating her to the punch; she was ready to join the fight the instant she noticed that it was Henry riding on Greg's back. She screams out her son's name, running as fast as she can toward the group of warriors descending on Greg. Killian's blade deflects a killing blow and delivers one of his own to the gut of the pixie in front of him. Emma engages with an opponent of her own, blocking their downward slice with her sword and trying to sneak in with her dagger to their thigh. He jumps back, avoiding the sharp edge of her blade. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see that David has engaged one of the Lost Ones, who are attempting to rally around Henry. "No, Dad! The fairies first! The fairies want him dead!"

The pixie tries to take advantage of her distraction, but she spins away from his lunge and reaches back with her sword. A yelp of pain indicates that she's managed to wound him on his unprotected, over-extended arm. She does exactly what Hecate has ordered her to and lets the tiniest bit of Air reach out to everyone fighting on their side. The magic follows the connection to Henry, the will to protect him and keep him safe. Snow's arrows fly faster and with greater accuracy; David and Killian both are protected from the blades and arrows of the Lost Ones and fairies alike, but there are far many more fighters than anyone could have anticipated. She can't even see her father and lover anymore, just the killer in front of her.

Like the coward he is, Pan takes this moment to appear and strike. She can sense him above them, riding the magical currents and emotions of the battle. He's looking for Henry, searching for his vessel. It's suddenly all too much for Emma. As if each being is the one she's come here to defeat, as if He is as corporeal and able to feel pain, she lashes out with violent efficiency. The need to protect Henry, to preserve the ones she loves fills her mind and soul completely. Her movements flow with a deadly grace that is both terrifying and sensual. She slices open the throat of a Lost One with her dagger before removing his head with her sword. A slash to the right opens up the thigh of a pixie, hamstringing him and bringing him down to her height. Another head goes rolling. She can hardly see through the haze of blood and the burning brightness of magical fire.

From above, a flock of ravens descends, pecking the eyes and chucks of hair and scalp from the pixie warriors. Emma screams in rage, tossing the vicious black birds away from her and hers, as she continues to carve out a path of death and destruction. Finally, she sees Mendell on her right, Regina's hand plunged deep into his chest; she pulls out his heart and looks over at Emma, who wraps Henry securely in a pocket of Air and nods. The queen is quick and ruthless, crushing the man's glowing pink heart into dust and watching the light drain slowly from his eyes. Once it's over, Regina pulls Henry into her arms, and they both disappear in a puff of purple smoke and fire. Their son is safe. Cries of anger, bellows of rage, and a piercing shriek rend the air all at once as more than one group has realized that their prize has been lost. Now that she no longer needs to worry about Henry, Emma throws herself back into the fight, cutting down one opponent after another and seeking out Killian and her Dad.

But it isn't long before she finds herself surrounded by Lost Ones of various ages, clubs and daggers engaging her, but no longer aiming to kill. She doesn't give up, managing to take out several of the adults without a qualm, though she can't bring herself to ruthlessly dispatch the teenagers and children. They give her plenty of room, and soon the Shadow descends from the air, floating just a foot or so off the ground.

_"If you weren't such a nuisance to me and my cause, I might be impressed, child. My name is Father Peter, and I have been searching for a long time for a boy like your Henry. He can end this pointless struggle; he can destroy magic for good. How much pain and suffering could your poor family have avoided if only there were no sorcery, no spellcraft?"_

Emma keeps her sword and dagger at the ready, eyes locked on the burning yellow-white gaze of the former deity. "Let's get one thing straight. I know what you are, Peter Pan; you may have everyone else here fooled into thinking you're some saintly priest looking to get rid of magic. But not only do I know the truth—I can see it. You're just a shadow, an insubstantial wraith that lives on lies and deceit. You were punished by your brethren, and so you collected the disaffected, the lost, the abandoned. You've preyed on the hopes and dreams of children and let them die for your precious crusade. So you can take your little charade somewhere else, _Pan_, because you are _NOT_ taking my son."

She lunges at the shadow, knowing that it's pointless. Except it isn't, because her sword feels like it has cut through actual flesh and a black smoke starts seeping out of Pan's side. Emma looks down at her sword—the blade shimmers with her green and gold power, and the bone and copper glow dimly in her hand. _"So it's true then—you are the source of your Henry's potential!"_

Without warning, Emma feels a harsh pull, a cold, crushing pain that radiates out from her heart and brings her to her knees. She can't breathe beyond the agony in her chest. She screams out Killian's name along their mental connection, but the only answer is echoing silence. Power explodes out of her in a magical act of defiance, a shout of anguished rage and denial; he can't be dead. Merciful goddess, he can't be! It's impossible to even contemplate, let alone believe, that a man as vital and loving and full of hope as Killian Jones could be torn from her by death.

"_And where is your goddess now, when you need her most? When your lover needed your protection and hers, where was she? That misery, that suffering you're feeling right now? It's happening because your True Love is no longer in this world. Give in to me, Emma Swan; let me take control, and we will bring him back."_

Tears stream down her cheeks. As much as she wants to believe Pan, that somehow they can find a way, she remembers one vital limitation of magic. Dead is dead; trying to reverse the natural order and return life to someone can only bring more pain and heartache. So, she lies. "Yes. I'll do it. Go ahead and use my body. Just help me bring Killian back."

She hears a dark chuckle in the back of her mind before the shadow slams into her, breaking through physical barriers and magical shields. If she weren't already on her knees, the black burning crackle of his unnatural energy attempting to consume hers would have driven her to them. She clutches her head between her hands, practically tearing her hair out because the pain is too much. Every single nerve feels frozen, feels burned, feels like it's having steel knives driven into it. She feels a pull, a suction that's trying to tear her heart and soul from her body. And when her essence stubbornly remains, when the invading darkness can't kick her out of her mind, it turns on her, punching and kicking and biting and clawing at her from the inside out. Finally, the agony is more than she can bear, and with a final shriek of helpless misery, blissful oblivion descends.


	25. Other Promises to Keep

Killian has seen more than his fair share of battles on both land and sea. The trick to surviving one without casting up your accounts is to never breathe through your nose once the dying has started. Emma is faster to the fray than he is, being much lighter on her feet and used to running on terra firma. A gaunt, wraithlike fairy sets her in his sights immediately, swinging low to reach her unprotected head. Killian swings up, the bite of his blade meeting steel reverberating up his sword arm. He manages to plunge his hook deep into the soft flesh of the warrior's throat, ripping out both carotid artery and jugular vein as his body's momentum pulls him away from the pixie. Being nimble enough to avoid arterial spray is another trick he's learned over the years.

The edge of his hook is as finely honed as the edge of his sword, and he uses the one just as often as the other to make his kills. The last time his skills were truly put to the test like this, it was also a battle against the fairies. Except then, he had Indian warriors on his side and certainly more than eight people all total. But not all of the pixies are easily killed. Many have learned to wield the blade instead of magic, both in their previous lives and here in Neverland. He crosses swords with a particularly nasty looking fellow, scars crisscrossing his face indicating the number of times he's fought for his life under similar circumstances. Their blades engage, and lock, turning it into a test of brute strength and skill. But before either can prevail, the warrior disappears in a puff of red smoke, sending Killian to the blood soaked ground. He quickly recovers, blocking a fierce stab from above and slicing open the fairy's knees before making another sloppy kill.

He can see Emma's hair flying like a golden pennant above her head, his princess more than holding her own against more skilled and bigger opponents. He notices the green and gold flecks dancing in the air around him for the first time, smiling at her need and ability to protect everyone all at once. It explains why he hasn't yet felt the bite of blade or arrow, and her sheer stubbornness fills him with a deep satisfied feeling of pride. With Emma watching his back and him watching hers, they are all but unbeatable. He catches sight of the Dark One, high on his ledge above the mess in the clearing, engaged in a duel of his own. He isn't certain from this distance, but the way her hair catches the light reminds him of Belle, and then suddenly of Milah. However, he's quickly distracted by more important, pressing matters, like the dagger of yet another pixie. The opponents begin to blur, his eyes only seeking for subtle movements that signal the attack. He's done this countless times; so often that he enters a trance-like state, completely attuned to the whirling energy of the fray. His mind is clear of all emotions, all logic, all thought—only two things remain as clear as crystal in his brain, to protect and to survive. Each killing blow, each thrust of his hook, each slice of his cutlass through bone and flesh and blood is another threat to the safety of Emma and her family destroyed. The pixies die, so that Killian's loved ones can live to fight another day.

Suddenly, finds himself disoriented, surrounded by a cloud of noxious crimson smoke that entombs him and separates him from the battle. He's startled at the loss of sound and sight, but really, he should have seen it coming. It was only a matter of time before the Dark One chose his moment to strike against his old foe, the man who had helped his wife run away and then fallen in love with her for good measure. In a way, Killian Jones has known, has guessed that deep down, Rumplestiltskin has never truly intended to let him live; the pirate had stolen something from him, needed to suffer before he could be allowed the mercy of death. Captain Hook, hard and unflinching man he had become, would have done the same. Until light and love had given him something to live for again, and the façade of rougish villain had slipped away like a mask to reveal the true man beneath.

And now that man has no intention of denying the Dark One his revenge—indeed, he embraces the chance to die protecting his Love and her child, if that's what they need from him. Killian looks around, instantly knowing exactly where they are: the crossroad from his dream of Milah, the three-way road from his dream with Emma all those long nights ago. They have somehow been transported to Dreamscape, although he doesn't believe that this is where Rumplestiltskin intended to bring them. The old man faces him, grinning maliciously in the flickering torchlight coming from around the altar. "I'm afraid it's just us now, dearie. And the proper ending to this duel has been a long time coming. You have no idea how hard it's been this last month, seeing you happy and content with life. Milah and Bae are dust, while you just can't seem to figure out how to die. I'm going to enjoy showing you just how black your heart is before I crush it beneath my boot."

Jones glances at the altar and then at the sword in his hand and his hook. Without another thought, he throws the cutlass to the ground. With a flick of his wrist, he detaches the wicked instrument from his left arm, the attachment that lent him its name for so long, and drops it beside his blade. "What game are you playing at, Hook? Pick them up. I like to play with my food before I eat it."

Killian stretches his arms wide, staring down the man he now pities more than despises. "You want me dead, and you'll stop at nothing until I am. You don't care who you'll hurt in the process, but I do. There's only one way to do this, and that's right here and right now. Go ahead, Rumplestiltskin—complete your vengeance."

The Dark One stalks closer, blade pointed at his enemy's chest. "And what of our precious savior? Do you expect the charming Princess Emma to avenge you in return?"

Killian steps forward, so he can feel the sharp steel against his skin. "No. Emma is far stronger than you imagine; she can survive without me. She will live and love again because she is a fighter and because she knows that a life of vengeance isn't what I'd wish for her. And I won't put her in danger. Because if I live, I will always be at her side; and she will always be caught in your crosshairs. I refuse to watch her die, when we can be men and end it all here."

"As you wish, dearie." Rumplestiltskin shrugs, plunges his hand into Jones' chest, and rips the other man's heart out. Killian feels the most exquisite agony, because the moment his heart is gone, he ceases to feel his connection to Emma. His ability to love, to _feel_ love and compassion is gone, and rests in his enemy's open palm. He can Hear a screaming inside his head, but he is distanced from all of the rage and sorrow and pain in the voice. He feels absolutely nothing for the first time in centuries—no joy, no hope, but mercifully, no suffering. "What is this?"

The heart that rests in the Dark One's hand looks off…different from any other either has ever seen before. Instead of pink-red and pulsating, it simply glows continuously with a bright light—a color somewhere between blue and white and purple. But more than this, all of the old man's efforts to destroy the organ are failing; he squeezes, knuckles turning a burning white from the fierceness of their grip, but no shattering cracks appear in the luminous surface of the heart. A ripple of Power forces Rumplestiltskin to his knees, and a voice speaks that echoes as if coming across long distances of time and space. "You forget, Dark One, that your powers are derived from mine, just as the Soteria's are. You are death; she is birth; and both of you serve me."

Hecate appears in all her glory beside the altar and walks around the Captain, glowing green eyes fixed on Rumplestiltskin. She stalks toward him as a lioness trains her gaze on prey. With a flick of her wrist, the heart disappears from his hand, and Killian is crushed by the weight of Emma's pain. He collapses, cradling his chest at the burst of agony that rips through him. She felt everything that he did—that wonderful nothingness, empty of soul or mind—and he knows that in that moment, his "death" has completely destroyed her. "Emma love, no!"

"Go to her. I will deal with my acolyte on my own." Another wave of her hand, and the confused pirate disappears. "Now, Rumplestiltskin… There are a great many thing we need to discuss."

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Killian finds himself back in the melee with sword and hook at the ready. Most combatants are already dead or dying on the ground. Men and women in lab coats, young children in rags, fairies in all their naked and diminished glory… So many who believed that they would never grow old and thus live forever, fooled by empty promises and their blind faith in their own immortality. He looks up to see Snow and Artemis still firing arrows from the trees, a growing pile of pixie corpses building itself around them. Regina's fireballs are absent, but only because she must have managed to escape to the Jolly Roger with Henry. With the boy recovered, the fight should be over; but in frustration at losing their prize, the fairies and Pan have clearly redoubled the viciousness of their attacks. Every thrust of blade, every pulse of power is aimed to kill.

He processes all of this in a mere second, his body instantly recovering its fighting rhythm. Because the one thing he had hoped never to see is the sight that greets him first. Emma is down on the ground, clenching her stomach, felled enemies absolutely surrounding her; whatever allowed her to feel the Dark One ripping out Killian's heart has yet to inform her that he's whole once more. David stands next to her, bloody sword lashing out against all those who would harm his daughter. But even the prince has his limits and cannot protect himself on all sides.

"Snow! Artemis! Get his back! Emma! Now isn't the time to be taking a rest, love! War to be won, and all that!" But his Swan doesn't get up. Her hands are now fisted in her hair; her jaw is clenched so tight he wonders that it doesn't break. Something is terribly, terribly wrong. He runs as fast as he can toward her, dispatching fairy and Lost One alike in his desperation. A cold burn starts up in his gut—a vicious, coiling snake of fury and fear. He makes it to her side in time to see her eyes flash open; but instead of magic-fired emeralds, he sees gray shadows swirling like a mad whirlpool before her whole eye goes black. And then she shrieks, but it is more than her voice alone. Emma, Hecate, and Pan—Savior, goddess, and spirit—all of those voices blend into a desperate keening of triumph and agony.

Every fight ceases at this painful sound. Power begins to ripple outward from her body, distorting the trees around them and the land they are standing on. He is blown back by the force of the shockwave, and then blackness and blessed silence enshrouds everyone in the clearing. When he can see again, Killian notices that the rock ledge, the trees, the clearing… Not a single one of their foes, dead or alive, remain. Hecate is kneeling beside his princess, as is David. Snow is noisily climbing down from her deadly perch, calling her daughter's name. He can't breathe. If he thought watching Milah die was the most painful experience of his life, he discovers in this moment how wrong he was. Terrible chills run through his veins instead of blood, and every muscle in his body spasms and aches. More than anything, he wants to be the one holding and touching Emma, but he is helpless and paralyzed. He can't even speak around the leaden weight of his entire body and the horrible, vicious grip on his heart.

The Huntress touches his shoulder, and for once he sees pity and sympathy in her eyes instead of loathing. It's this rare display of emotion that speaks volumes to him about what has happened. Emma is gone. "No, not gone. It was the only way to contain Pan, the only way to save us all. Henry…the boy has a far greater potential for magic than even his mother does, and we could not allow him be taken. So, the Soteria offered herself freely to spare her child, but also to preserve us all from a fate worse than death. But please, don't despair; she's alive, and once we have built a more appropriate prison, she can be woken. It will take the power of True Love's kiss to set her free, but she is not lost to you."

A dark fury, potent and achingly familiar rises up inside Killian. Somehow, some way, these goddesses have played with them all and convinced Emma to sacrifice her life, all for some sick cosmic joke. Instead of rescuing Henry and defeating Pan, their whole mission has been about denying Swan the life and happiness that she deserves. He gets up shakily to his feet and then launches himself at Hecate, burying his hook into her exposed neck. "Where's your justice and balance now, you old bitch?! How is any of this fair?! She did all you ever asked of her and never even got the chance to hold her son safe in her arms! Why?! What has she ever done to warrant this?! When can she stop being the fucking Savior and just live her own damn life?! Tell me! Tell ME!"

Instead of choking on her own blood like he had been hoping for or some sort of wrathful smiting because of his impertinence, Hecate merely looks on him with compassion, understanding, and pity—emotions that he cannot bear. Killian screams, pouring all his wrath and misery into a soul shattering shriek of impotent defiance. He lands on his knees in the sandy, bloody clay, head held between hook and hand, rocking back and forth until he is pulled into a tight, unfamiliar embrace. And it's this touch, this gesture of solidarity and empathy that breaks him; because with the exception of Emma, no one has touched him like this in 878 years. He sobs wretchedly, clinging to the other person like a lifeline, feeling their tears fall on his head like scalding rain.

David holds onto him, keeping him grounded to the earth, both men united in the love and grief. They belatedly notice that Snow is still keening, still cradling Emma in her arms and kissing her face over and over again. With a nod to the Prince, Killian wraps himself around Mary Margaret's back, urging her to let go of her daughter. Despite her stubbornness and own inner strength, she's no match for the pirate who quickly hands her over to her husband for consoling. He gently gathers his Swan into his arms, tucking her head underneath his chin so that he can feel the brush of her golden, beautiful curls against his face. When he's certain she's secure, he rises to his feet and begins the long walk back to his ship. She's still warm—sleeping, the goddess said—so he can pretend with every step that his heart isn't being sawn in half. He moves carefully, deliberately so that she isn't jarred in the slightest on the journey back… His brain stutters over the word home. The Jolly Roger has been his home for centuries, and over the last month he had begun to think of it as hers as well.

But she's gone; she left him behind and may not ever be coming back. If she has a home, it's certainly not with him. With Emma dead to him, his ship is all he has left in this world, in any world; so it is only fitting that he returns there with his crushed heart and shattered dream. She still feels real and solid in his embrace, but her soul no longer resides in this body. Much like Killian himself feels at the moment, disconnected from reality and the rest of the world. He only knows that Henry must have seen them coming from a distance, because the boy is crying while Regina rocks him back and forth. There's no barrage of questions to interrupt his funereal march toward his cabin. He gently lays Emma down on their bed and begins to care for her. He is still distant, untouchable as he methodically undresses and bathes her beloved skin; the blood and soot and dirt flee beneath his gentle ministrations to her body. He takes one of his shirts—one she would frequently steal to wear to bed, only to have him remove it again—wrapping her up in it before settling her under the sheets and blankets, hands resting on her stomach.

He pulls up her chair and sits in it, eyes never leaving her still form. He knows that if he were to touch her, to caress or kiss her skin that she would be warm. But it's not really her anymore—it's a body, a cage, a prison. His vibrant, independent, hard as nails lass has left him. He feels the rocking of the ship on the waves, hears when the others return, and sees Snow White when she joins him in his vigil. But he no longer cares about leaving the shores of Neverland, because no matter where he goes, he will not find his Swan. There's not a realm he can travel to where his Emma love will be waiting for him. And so, while others command his ship, he sits below deck mourning the loss of his woman and his life.

"I had a dream about this. Except it was the Dark One she was fighting, and he took her heart. But it wasn't him who wanted to kill her. They were supposed to help us, and instead they took her. Hasn't she done enough, saved enough people and their sodding "happy endings"? Haven't you and your husband spent enough time without your daughter? Hasn't Henry waited long enough to be with his mother? When does it end, milady? She deserves so much better than this, but when do the gods give _her_ something for a change?"

"Oh, Killian. Don't you understand? _You_ are her happy ending. I've never seen Emma enjoy much of anything, but please don't do yourself the disservice of saying you haven't brought light and joy to her eyes again. You're her True-"

"No! I've a rotten, black soul, milady. Cursed and vile. Real happiness is something that I don't deserve, so how could I possibly be hers?" Snow begins to weep again, silent tears splash onto her up-raised palms on her lap for this fractured soul beside her, for this man who loves her only child so fiercely and so passionately, for this lost boy who has had love denied him time and time again. No words can make any of this right or take away any of his pain. And so she prays.


	26. Epilogue- Choices

_Storybrooke, Three Days Later_

Killian leans on the rail of his ship, glaring at the full moon. He knows that there is a choice to be made, but neither one of his options truly appeals to him. After everyone had returned to the Jolly Roger, including an injured and subdued Rumplestiltskin, Poseidon had navigated far out into the oceans of Neverland, eventually opening a portal that returned them to Maine. When the ship docked, an excited crowd awaited them; the homecoming quickly turned into something less than a joyous celebration. Much had passed while he and the royals had been absent searching for Henry. He hadn't made an effort to find out what precisely happened, but it was hard even for him to miss the fact that half of the town had been burnt to the ground.

It didn't take long for people to resume pushing for a return home, to where they all really belonged. Snow White and David had immediately consulted with the group who had managed affairs in their absence and called all the citizens together. It was the only occasion upon which Killian had been persuaded to leave Emma's side; her parents had granted his unspoken request that she be allowed to remain where she was, sleeping in his bed, and his attendance was the only thing they had asked of him since the battle. At the council meeting where everyone voted unanimously to leave this world behind, he stood in the shadows watching. He had never been a part of Storybrooke, so he really had no say in whether the townspeople returned to the Enchanted Forest or not. With the die cast, there is little that he can do besides choose. Her mother had followed him out of the hall and into the night…

_"Captain." Killian halted at both the command and the request in Snow's voice. "You didn't say in there what you plan on doing; if you are joining us."_

_ "That's because I've not yet examined all facets, milady. There are some who, despite my best efforts to the contrary, would rather see me dead than living in the same realm as a free man."_

_ "And there are just as many who know what you've done for my family and would honor you for it. David and I can make it official, with a royal pardon, if you'd accept it." She made her words tentative and soft, as if she knew he would need a more gentle form of persuasion. She approached him cautiously, carefully, making sure to make as much noise as possible. Her time as a bandit taught her that thieves, like all hunted animals, startle easily. She placed her hand gently on his left shoulder, and for a moment, he let himself close his eyes and pretend that it was Emma's touch._

_ "She wouldn't want you to be alone, for however long it takes her to come back to us. She would want-"_

_ Killian shrugged her hand off and pulled away abruptly. "Well it bloody well doesn't matter what she wants now, does it? She left us! She made the choice to abandon us for this ridiculous!..." He hung his head, defeated, unable to continue the thought or to pretend that he's not talking about himself. Hastily, he turned toward Snow and bowed._

_ "A thousand apologies, Majesty. But I have a ship to repair after our lengthy voyage. Never know when I must be prepared to sail again." With that, he spun on his heels and stalked back to the Jolly Roger. Where he proceeded to drink his way through several bottles of rum and brandy…_

The burn did nothing to alleviate or distract from the constant stabbing pain in his chest and even the numbing of his senses doesn't erase his knowledge of her absence. His very bones ache to the core, telling him that his princess is gone from this place. Her body may rest below deck in his quarters, but that vital spark, the bright light of her soul no longer remains. The sounds of the waves against the hull are usually soothing, but tonight nothing can quiet the rage and despair and helplessness he feels. _This_ is why he held on to his revenge for centuries—to avoid this agony. _This_ is why he was drawn to and yet feared Emma Swan—because he knew instinctively from the moment she held a blade to his throat that she alone had the power to destroy him.

"Is that what you really think, Killian? Is that how you really feel?" His heart stutters and all the air leaves his lungs at once. He refuses to look to either side because he knows that it simply _can't_ be her and that he must be dreaming and tormenting himself. Her hand comes into his field of vision and firmly closes over the top of his. It feels so real, as real as he desperately wishes it to be—he can even feel the calluses on her fingers left behind by her sword and firearm. He shuts his eyes against the sight, against the pain and madness bubbling up inside him. It's the soft caress of the back of her fingers against his cheek that breaks him. He doesn't care if this is phantom or illusion or death itself, so long as it wears his Emma's form.

He pulls her into his arms, resting his forehead against hers, still unwilling to open his eyes. "I've always known the gods were cruel and that I deserve to rot in the deepest hell, but I had no idea they could be so creatively vindictive."

"Tell your sailor to have a bit more respect, girl. You have your five minutes with him. Use them wisely." Killian finally opens his eyes to find the owner of the voice, but the second he does, all his focus is on Emma. She has a sad smile on her face and tears are gently falling down her cheek. He knows it's a vision because she's wearing the ball gown from their dream, the vivid blue that matches his irises and makes hers a brighter shade of green. But she looks and feels solid in his arms, a fact which causes his throat to constrict tighter.

"There isn't much time, and there's so much I'm not allowed to tell you." She bites her lower lips, as if even that wasn't meant to be said. "I want you to know that I didn't have a much of a choice, Killian, and please believe me when I say that my decision wasn't easy. But if I hadn't trapped Pan, then _everyone_ I love would have been in danger. You most of all. The hardest part was knowing that you'd think I was leaving you behind. Again. I promised you that I wouldn't run away, that I would never abandon you, and I haven't Killian Jones. I'm not leaving you."

"But you already have, darling. You made your deal with the goddesses, and now I may never see you again."

The tears fall faster, and, just as with their first kiss, Emma is the one who takes control. There has been passion and gentleness, raging heat and aching tenderness, but never has there been such raw, desperate intimacy before. It's as if she's trying to steal a piece of his soul with his breath; but all he is belongs to her already. He holds nothing back, pouring into this melding of lips every emotion, every feeling, every argument he would have used to persuade her to stay with him. She pulls back a mere inch, staring directly into his eyes. When she speaks it is in a longing whisper. "Please, Killian. Please don't give up. Come find me and bring me home with you."

He takes a deep, startled breath, as if he's been under water for too long. Once again, Emma is gone, and he's leaning over the railing of the Jolly Roger, looking at the reflection of the full moon on the waves. "Insufferable girl! Thinks that none of the rules apply to her!"

Killian turns toward the voice from before, one that sounds cracked with stress, use, or age. She's attractive for an older woman, but he can feel power radiating off of her and knows that she's not ordinary. Her silver white hair falls in waves about her shoulders, and her eyes are a glowing blue-green. "I don't care who you are or what you want; you get the bloody hell off of my ship now!"

"That's no way to talk to a sea witch, sailor boy! Certainly not one who's been roped into helping your sorry ass against her better judgment." She stalks toward him, cold calculation in her gaze chilling him worse than the night breeze coming in off the ocean. She sniffs the air, then curls her lips in distaste. "Drunk AND feeling sorry for himself! My, my… Honestly, it's hard to tell just what that child sees in you. Ah, ah, ah!"

A flick of her wrist brings a column of water over the side of the ship. Before he can move two feet toward the self-proclaimed witch, the water has shaped itself like chains and manacles him where he stands on the deck. To add insult to injury, a band of it wraps itself all the way up his torso, neck, and lower face. "That's much better. A pretty face and no way to speak except through body language. Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I am here to help you. Your precious princess made a deal with some goddesses to imprison Pan. Nod your head if you follow me, lover boy."

She can't stop him from glaring daggers at her, but he manages as curt an affirmative as he can. "Excellent. Believe it or not, Hecate has no intention of keeping Emma Swan trapped forever; in fact, her sister told you all that at the right moment, True Love's kiss would wake her and finish the binding on Pan's new prison. So, the question is this, Killian Jones: are you willing to make your own bargain with us to help set her free? Or will you be a coward and run away licking your wounds?"

He shakes his head and motions downward with it, toward the water shackles. The witch waves two of her fingers and the gag slides away from his mouth. "First things first. Who are you? Why would you help me? And what kind of deal?"

She grins, a look that can only be described as lascivious, then reaches up to grasp his chin in her hand. "Ah! I see it now! Determined, ruthless, persistent—you've water magic in your veins, boy. No doubt about that! If you weren't already spoken for, I might have been tempted to keep you for myself." Her laugh is harsh and smoky when he jerks his face away.

"Such a stickler for propriety. Very well, then. My most well-known name is Thetis, daughter of the titan Nereus, mother of Achilles. I am helping you because Hecate and Artemis cannot. Pan was a menace among our kind, and the Trivia was not the only one whose sisters suffered for his lusts and impudence. There were fifty of us once—daughters of Nereus…" For the first time, the demi-goddess shows something other than confidence, lost in memories of those long forgotten by humanity. "I cannot bring back my father's children, but I can avenge them by making sure that that upstart satyr suffers.

"Hecate and Artemis have already made deals with Emma Swan, thus they can aid her no further. Deities may be powerful, but even we have rules regarding how much influence we can wield over the realms; we can only hold onto so many mortals' contracts at a time. And so, I am doing them a favor."

"This is all very fascinating. Riveting, my dear, really. But none of this explains what this has to do with me." The boredom is as much a façade as it has been in the past, but he cannot hide the slightest quiver of excited hope that has sprung up within him at her words. Thetis places her hands on her hips, regarding him thoughtfully for several long moments. Clearly, she comes to some sort of decision about him in that time.

"Knowledge of the future is complicated… So many things, tiny details sometimes effect the largest of outcomes. Would you care to see what possibilities hinge on this one choice of yours, boy?" The witch sashays up to Killian, conjures a handful of water, and dips one fingertip into the miniscule pool. On his forehead, she draws a five-pointed star and then flings the remaining water to the deck of his ship. Images wrestle for dominance inside his brain; he can see so many things, and yet nothing at the same time.

But a flash of brilliant white light blinds him, and when his vision clears, he sees her. Green eyes dance with joy and mischief, while her hair trails behind her in a golden, sun-lit ribbon; she's running away from him, barefooted through a sunny forest, but she turns and beckons him with a radiant smile. She glows with love and happiness, left hand gently resting on top of her full, rounded belly. And then he's right behind her in a bed, supporting her and telling her to breathe. She squeezes his hand, begging him to stay with her; he promises that he's right here and not going anywhere, that she's absolutely beautiful and there's nowhere he'd rather be. He holds her as pain clearly overwhelms her, but then they both start laughing when they hearing a little wailing cry. She kisses him and thanks him for giving her a family before the pain starts all over again.

Next, he sees her beautiful green eyes staring back at him from the tiniest face he's ever seen. The baby girl has a full head of soft black hair that he can't resist touching. He sings to her and makes ridiculous faces just to see her smile light up. He can feel a solid blanket of love and peace wrap itself around him and the little one; he looks up to see her staring at him from her rocking chair, nursing their blue-eyed girl who has only pale white wisps of down on her head. He's distracted enough by the mother that he doesn't notice his daughter pulling on his necklace until it's too late. He gently unwraps delicate fingers from around the medallion and reverently kisses each one, all while his three girls laugh at him.

He sees lessons in sailing and horseback riding; he watches the infants become children, chasing after three toddling little boys of various heights and coloring; dancing and music, archery and sword fighting; an endless whirl of childhood and growing up. And through it all, he has a blonde beauty by his side who makes every moment complete and perfect. That physical presence of love and devotion grows stronger throughout the various scenes he witnesses until he can see it floating on the very air that surrounds this vision.

Killian Jones weeps, tears splashing down his cheeks unreservedly when the Sight leaves him. He's just a man, bent and twisted by years of dark loneliness and rage. "But all that time and all that pain haven't broken you yet. There's still hope ready to live inside you again, if you're willing to risk it. Are you a gambling man enough to take a leap of faith, in yourself? Do you want that dream to become a reality badly enough to take a chance?

"I can't lie to you and don't condone it in most cases anyway. You, boy, are NOT Emma Swan's true love. But you could be. The worlds exist, thrive on balance—good and evil, light and dark, man and woman. Your life thus far has been one of hedonistic excess and terrible darkness, until she came along. If you can prove yourself worthy—if you can atone for the sins of the past and convince the gods of your selfless love for the girl, then you will become more than the man she already loves…. Have we got a deal?" The water flows off of his body, then stands up in front of him on the deck. A translucent scroll sits on an open book, ready and waiting for his consent. The witch extends her hand to him, a quill resting between her outstretched fingers.

For the first time since he kissed Emma just before the fight with Pan, Killian Jones smiles. "And what sort of deeds will persuade the gods themselves of my sincerity?"

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_The Enchanted Forest- Two Weeks Later_

_It feels so good to finally be home_. Snow allows herself this moment of unadulterated happiness. The kingdoms are in shambles, ogres and trolls run rampant, and her home is in desperate need of a complete overhaul. But it's that very word which fills her with light and hope. Home. She and David and Emma and Henry and all the others are finally back where they belong. All around her, Snow can hear the sounds of hammering and the clanking of pick-axes on stone. Servants are sorting through the debris and putting rooms to rights. The only note of true sadness comes from the chapel where they have placed Emma's bed.

The choice was Henry's. David argued that it was morbid, as if they were treating her like a dead body. But Henry pointed out that a goddess would feel most comfortable in a place of worship and contemplation, and that hope was often lit in prayers. He also, strangely, said that Emma wanted to sleep there. Snow had looked at her husband and shrugged, unwilling to question their grandson on this point. Every day, Snow makes a point of sitting with her daughter, brushing her hair and speaking to her of the things that were happening now in the Enchanted Forest.

Artemis had assured her that Emma could always find these things out from Hecate, but it soothes the queen in ways she doesn't fully understand. As part of their agreement, the goddesses had promised to protect her family while she "slept" and to take them all back home if that is what everyone decided on. Snow smiles at the thought of her daughter bargaining with deities. Her skirts shush against the stone floor as she toes off her slippers by the entrance.

The bed is placed on a dais, covered in purple velvet and gold satin. Curtains have been hung on a canopy to provide a measure of privacy for when members of the royal family visit. As always, there is one dwarf on duty, axe at the ready to defend their princess. Snow can feel the presence of the goddess, not because she can be seen, but because of their connection as warrior maidens, as huntresses. She nods to Doc, indicating that he can go rest or join his brothers in their repair work. He squeezes her hand, a gesture of love and solidarity, before quietly leaving. The drapes are open right now, letting light fall gently on Emma. In honor of her magical abilities and sacrifice, Hecate had robed her in a blindingly bright bluish white toga—a garment and color only worn by deities and demigods. As a concession to her heritage, the skirt is split down the middle to reveal matching leather pants and boots; her sword and dagger, polished to a high gleam every day by David, are sheathed in their scabbards at her sides.

"The pirate was here earlier." Faint disapproval colors Artemis' words; the goddess wasn't fond of men generally speaking, but had yet to rethink her instant and pronounced dislike of Captain Jones. Snow smiles both at her new friend's unspoken commentary and at the thought of how much had changed with regard to the former buccaneer. He had come to her and David the morning after the council meeting and informed them that not only was he going with them, but that they could use his ship to transport everyone to the Enchanted Forest all at once. Goodwill had positively flowed to him from that point onward, and Snow knows that it will only be a matter of time before David can convince Jones to accept the commission they have planned for him.

She settles in beside her daughter and is about to pick up Emma's hairbrush when she notices an envelope addressed to her resting by her daughter's pillow.

_Your Majesty,_

_ I know this act may seem cowardly, or at least one of extreme ingratitude, but I am afraid circumstances have forced me to depart without the usual, proper farewells. Please see these other letters to their intended recipients, as well for me. Let us be frank, milady—you know that I love your daughter to a point beyond all reason. But the heart seldom shakes hands with what is logical. Perhaps it is madness, and indeed I cannot deny that it will seem so to many, but I dare to hope that someday I will return and will be man enough to restore Emma to you. I cannot promise that I will succeed when I come back, but I ask that you have faith that __my__ love for her can transform me into a man worthy of __her__ love. One last request: read the enclosed to her every day and keep an eye on the horizon._

_ Your obedient servant,_

_ Captain Killian Jones_

Snow's eyes fill with tears. She may have missed Emma's first words, first steps, and a world of other firsts… But she now knows that she has been given a gift that eases some of the sadness—she was allowed to watch her daughter's path to True Love grow and blossom. She has no doubt that Killian Jones will return, and that he will break this curse. She gets up and immediately searches for her husband and the captain of the guard. That very night, a watch is set to scan the seas and beacon fires prepared to relay the message of a certain ship's arrival. Before retiring for the evening, Snow and David light candles to dispel the gloom and shadows from the chapel, and to read Killian's letter to their daughter.

_I swear to you: I will never give up, princess. I __will__ bring you home._

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Three women stand on the mountain top above the glistening bay. A ship sails off into the sun in the distance, winking out of sight in a flash of blue-green light. "Really, Thetis, was it necessary? Telling the man he wasn't her True Love _after_ claiming not to be able to lie? That's a touch cruel, even for you."

"He's entirely too cheeky! Besides, if he knew the truth, he would have kissed her and all this planning would have been for nothing! Pan would have been released, and it would have all started over again! No, he has a long road to journey on before he can believe himself worthy. Plus, he made demands of his own: wants to be taught how to use his magic, and to know where he comes from."

"You'd think he'd have learned by now that the past isn't what defines him anymore. But no matter; once he passes our tests, we will give him what he seeks."

"You're so certain of him are you, Hecate? Why? He's mortal, flawed, weak! How can you be so sure of his success?"

"Because everyone deserves their chance at redemption, to reclaim their lives and become the hero of their own stories. Recognizing that and making that choice takes a lot of courage, a little luck, and something else he has—a heart capable of great love."

_Finis._


End file.
